THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


8A5H8? 

J168V 

V.  *2A 


The  person  charging  this  material  is  re- 
sponsible for  its  return  to  the  library  from 
which  it  was  withdrawn  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below. 

Theft,  mutilation,  and  underlining  of  books 
are  reasons  for  disciplinary  action  and  may 
result  in  dismissal  from  the  University. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS  LIBRARY  AT  URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 


RPR 


APR 


3 


0 


1978 


NOV  1 5 197) 

JUN  3 o 1999 


L161  — 0-1096 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/worksofvictorhug21hugo 


THE  NOVELISTS'  LIBRARY 
station  be  luxe 

Limited  to  Five  Hundred  Numbered  Sets 
This  Set  is  Number. .(xttkst!. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

NiVERSITY  OF  |LLINf 


THE  WORKS 

OF 

VICTOR  HUGO 

IN  TWENTY-FOUR  VOLUMES 
VOLUME  XXI 

POEMS 

VOL.  Ill 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright , 1909, 

By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 


The  University  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


V.  2.1 

CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  THREE 


LES  CHATIMENTS. 


Toru  Dutt 


PAGE 
. 613 
. 613 


Indignation 
The  Exile’s  Voice 
The  Fourth  of  December, 

1851  

The  Mass  of  the  First  of 
January,  1852  .... 
Art  and  the  People  . 
Imperial  Revels  .... 

Chanson 

A Souvenir  of  the  Night  of 

the  Fourth 

Apostrophe  to  Nature  . 
The  Exile’s  Choice  . 

The  Soldiers  of  the  First 

Republic 

Napoleon  the  Little  . 

Fable  or  History  (Bismarck 
and  Napoleon  III.) 

The  City  Man  at  Home  . 

A Lament 

No 

Sacer  Esto 

Apathy 

The  Dawn 

A Night’s  Lodging  . 

The  Imperial  Mantle 
Sea  Song  of  the  Exiles  . 
The  Worst  Treason  . 

The  Retreat  from  Moscow  . 


Sir  George  Young  . 

. 614 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 616 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. 618 

H.  L . Williams  . 

. 619 

Toru  Dutt 

. 620 

Torn  Dutt 

- 621 

N.  R . Tyerman  . 

. 624 

V.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. 624 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 626 

Edwin  Arnold 

. 628 

H.  L . Williams  . 

. 628 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 629 

Edwin  Arnold  . 

. 632 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 632 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 634 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 636 

Toru  Dutt 

. 638 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 639 

N.  R . Tyerman  . 

. 642 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. 644 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 645 

Toru  Dutt  . 

. 645 

1 


IV 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Hymn  of  the  Transported  . 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

PAGE 

. 649 

The  Ocean’s  Song 

Toru  Dutt 

. 650 

To  those  who  Sleep  . 

Toru  Dutt 

. 651 

To  the  People  .... 

Torn  Dutt 

. 653 

The  Party  of  Crime  . 

Henry  Carrington 

. 654 

Advice  and  Reply 

Toru  Dutt  . 

. 659 

The  Trumpets  of  the  Mast  . 

Torn  Dutt  . 

. 660 

The  Black  Huntsman 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. 661 

Song 

. 663 

Patria 

Toru  Dutt  . 

. 665 

The  Wreck 

Sir  George  Young 

. 667 

Song  in  Exile  .... 

Sir  George  Young 

. 668 

Sunrise  ...... 

. 670 

After  the  Coup  D’etat  . 

Toru  Dutt 

. 671 

Lux 

. 672 

To  the  Cannon  Victor  Hugo 

. 680 

LES  CHANSONS  DES  RUES  ET  DES  BOIS. 


The  Horse  .... 

. 683 

Order  of  Day  for  Florgal 

N.  R . Tyerman  . 

. 688 

Love  of  the  Woodland  . 

V.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. 689 

Summer  Morning 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 690 

Not  a Whit  now  do  I Care 

2V.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. 691 

Jane  Singing  .... 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 692 

This  Lovely  Spot 

V.  R . Tyerman  . 

. 694 

“ Falling  Stars”  . . 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 694 

The  Marly  Oak  . 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 695 

To  Rosita 

By  Silence  she  the  Battle 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 700 

Won  

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 701 

An^ry  Rosa  .... 

David  Tolmie 

. 702 

In  the  Abbey  Ruins  . 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 702 

From  Woman  to  Heaven 

David  Tolmie 

. 703 

The  Sower  .... 

Toru  Dutt 

. 704 

Baby’s  Sleep  at  Dawn  . 

N . R.  Tyerman  . 

. 705 

An  Out  Doors  Humourist 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 706 

THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  V 


Liberty,  Equality,  Frater- 
nity 

Gilbert  Campbell 

PAGE 
. 708 

The  Ascent  of  Man  . 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 710 

Lion’s  Sleep  at  Noon 

N.  R . Tyerman  . 

. 716 

During  an  Illness 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 717 

To  a Friend 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 719 

L’ANNlSE 

TERRIBLE. 

The  Lesson  of  the  Patriot 
Dead 

. 723 

The  Terrible  Year 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 724 

Sedan  

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 724 

To  Little  Jeanne 

Marwood  Tucker 

. 729 

From  the  Invested  Walls  of 
Paris 

. 730 

Paris  Slandered  .... 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 731 

To  the  Bishop  who  Called 
me  an  Atheist  .... 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 732 

To  a Sick  Child  during  the 
Siege 

Lucy  H . Hooper 

. 735 

The  Forts  of  Paris  . 

Torn  Butt 

. 736 

Toys  and  Tragedy 

. 738 

A Letter  by  Balloon  Post  . 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 739 

Brute  War  . . . 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. 742 

The  Carrier  Pigeon  . 

. 742 

The  Sortie 

N,  R.  Tyerman  . 

. 743 

In  the  Circus 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 744 

Capitulation 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 745 

Before  the  Conclusion  of 
the  Treaty 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 746 

To  those  who  talk  about 
Fraternity 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 748 

The  Struggle 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 749 

Mourning 

Marwood  Tucker 

. 750 

What  Dictates  the  Book 

N.  R . Tyerman  . 

. 751 

Strike  ....... 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 752 

Who  is  to  Blame?  . 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 752 

VI 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


On  a Barricade  .... 
Past  Participle  of  the  Verb 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

PAGE 
. 754 

Tropchoir 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 756 

The  Waterloo  Lion  . 

To  his  Orphan  Grandchil- 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 757 

dren 

Marwood  Tucker 

. 759 

L’ART  D’ETRE 

GRAND-PERE. 

The  Contented  Exile 

Ida  J.  Lemon 

. 765 

To  my  Grandson  .... 

N . R.  Tyerman  . 

. 768 

George  and  Jeanne  . 

N.  Y.  Tyerman  . 

. 769 

Laetitia  Rerum  .... 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 771 

Windows  open  in  Guernsey 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 773 

The  Missing  One  .... 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 774 

The  Siesta 

David  Tolmie 

. 776 

The  Moon 

. 778 

Evening 

The  Zoological  Gardens  — 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 781 

Public  Opinion 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 783 

To  George 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 784 

To  Jeanne  

How  Terrible  the  Face  of 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 786 

Brutes 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 787 

Jeanne  Asleep  .... 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 788 

Cradle  Song 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 789 

The  Cicatrix 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 791 

A Slap 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 791 

My  Jeanne 

David  Tolmie 

. 793 

Jeanne  

Edwin  Arnold  . 

. 794 

In  the  Woods 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 795 

The  Spoil-Sport  .... 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. 796 

Ora  Ama 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 797 

Set  Free 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 799 

Jeannie  Asleep  .... 

Sir  George  Young  . 

. 801 

The  Epic  of  the  Lion 

Edwin  Arnold 

. 802 

The  Souls  that  have  Gone  . 

David  Tolmie 

. 816 

Spoilt  Children  .... 

Henry  Carrington  . 

. 817 

THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


vii 


PAGE 


The  Poor  Children  . 

Algernon  Charles 

Swim - 

bume  . 

. . 819 

In  the  Meadows  .... 

Henry  Carrington 

. . 819 

The  Rising  Generation  . 

Sir  George  Young 

. . 820 

The  Grandfather’s  Song  . 

Henry  Carrington 

. . 823 

Song  of  Our  Fathers 

Sir  George  Young 

. . 824 

Jeanne  Asleep  .... 

Henry  Carrington 

. . 825 

Fraternity 

Sir  George  Young 

. . 826 

LES  QUATRE  VENTS  DE  L’ESPRIT. 

Prose  Poetry 

Sir  George  Young 

. . 833 

Pretty  Women  .... 

Sir  George  Young 

. . 833 

The  Stair 

Sir  George  Young 

. . 834 

To  the  Clouds  and  the  Birds 

Henry  Carrington 

. . 836 

The  Pool 

Sir  George  Young 

. . 837 

An  Old-Time  Lay 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. . 837 

The  Flower  of  Death 

Sir  George  Young 

. . 839 

Near  Avranches  .... 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. . 840 

My  Happiest  Dream  . 

On  hearing  the  Princess 

V.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. . 841 

Royal  Sing  .... 

V.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. . 842 

Twilight 

. . 844 

Pepita  ....... 

Sir  George  Young 

. . 845 

An  Old-Time  Lay 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. . 847 

The  Choice 

Sir  George  Young 

. . 847 

Jersey  

. . 848 

To  my  Daughter  Adfcle 

Henry  Carrington 

. . 850 

Since  Silently  are  Oped 

N.  R . Tyerman  . 

. . 851 

On  the  Cliff 

In  Vain  I search  like  One 

Henry  Carrington 

. . 852 

Distraught 

Henry  Carrington 

. . 855 

Light  on  the  Horizon 

V.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. . 855 

Song  of  Exile  .... 
Weeps  the  Earth  in  Win- 

Sir George  Young 

. . 857 

ter’s  Day 

It  is  a Little  Late  to  Smile 

Henry  Carrington 

. . 858 

so  Bright 

N.  R.  Tyerman  . 

. . 859 

THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


viii 

PAGE 

Exile Henry  Carrington  . . 859 

The  Two  Seraphim  . . . Sir  George  Young  . . 860 

The  Refugee’s  Haven 861 

The  Eddy Sir  George  Young  . . 862 

A Walk  among  the  Rocks  . Henry  Carrington  . . 863 

Walk  on  the  Rocks  . . . Henry  Carrington  . . 864 

Conscience Henry  Carrington  . .865 

Only  a Dog Henry  Carrington  . . 866 

TOUTE  LA  LYRE. 

(Translated  by  Sir  George  Young.) 

Talavera 869 

The  Marabout  Prophet 871 

The  War  of  1871  873 

Woodnote  .....  874 

Moonrise 874 

Ancient  and  Modern.  A 

Guernsey  Eclogue  . ...  . ■ 876 

Roman  Remains  . . . r.  877 

Wild  and  Garden  ....  > ...  • 878 

A Simile •.  . . 878 

Bird  and  Babe  . . . w . . 879 

The  Golden  Rule  . . . f.  . 879 

Birds  and  Poets  r.  . . . >.  880 

Shakespeare  .....  881 

To  a Friend  . :»  ;•  r.'  ;•  t«<  r.'  r*i  r.  ••  . . 881 

The  Refugee  .....  ........  883 

The  Spirit-World  . • n .......  . 885 

Wandering  . . f..  . r.  . r.  .....  886 

The  Exile’s  Return  886 

The  Unworded  Avowal  . ..  ?.<  •.  . r.  . . . . 887 

Thgrfcse  .....  t.  888 

Love  in  Autumn  890 

The  Jeweller’s  Shop  . . ^ w,  •.  892 

Rosamund 895 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


IX 


PAGE 

Ghost  Ballad  — The  Holly- 

Bough  . ........  . i.  . 895 

The  Triumph  of  Order  . .....  . . . 897 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Aubade Sir  George  Young  . .901 

Envy  and  Avarice  . . . American  Keepsake  . 902 

Prometheus  and  Orpheus  . Sir  George  Young  . . 904 

Benedictus  qui  Venit  . . Sir  George  Young  . . 907 

Pyrrho Sir  George  Young  . .908 

Hugh  Dundas Sir  George  Young  . .909 

The  Pity  of  the  Angels 911 

Mentana.  To  Garibaldi  . . Edwin  Arnold  . . .912 

Song  of  Birds Sir  George  Young  . .919 

Life 922 

Freedom  and  the  World  923 

The  Blind  Beggar  and  the 

Poet  . . . . . . . Henry  Carrington  . .923 


POEMS 

Volume  Three 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


On  a Barricade Frontispiece 

Drawn  by  G.  Jeanniot 

The  Black  Huntsman Page  662 

Drawn  by  Gomerre 


Past  Participle  op  the  Verb  Tropchoir  ....  757 
Drawn  by  Leon  Couturier 

Jeanne  Asleep 825 

Drawn  by  Albert  Fourte 


LES  CHATIMENTS 


1853 


LES  CHATIMENTS 

INDIGNATION ! 

Toi  qu’ aimait  Juvenal 

.Thou  who  loved  Juvenal,  and  filed 

His  style  so  sharp  to  scar  imperial  brows, 

And  lent  the  lustre  lightening 

The  gloom  in  Dante’s  murky  verse  that  flows  — » 
Muse  Indignation!  haste,  and  help 

My  building  up  before  this  roseate  realm, 

And  its  so  fruitless  victories, 

Whence  transient  shame  Eight’s  prophets  over- 
whelm. 

So  many  pillories,  deserved! 

That  eyes  to  come  will  pry  without  avail. 

Upon  the  wood  impenetrant, 

And  spy  no  glimmer  of  its  tarnished  tale. 


THE  EXILE’S  VOICE 

France  a Vheure  ou  tu  te  prosternes 

France!  at  the  hour  when  thou  bow’st  down, 
The  tyrant’s  foot  upon  thy  head ! 

A voice  shall  ring  from  caverns  brown. 

At  which  the  chained  joy-tears  shall  shed. 

An  exile  standing  on  the  shore. 

And  looking  at  the  star  and  wave, 


614 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Shall  speak  as  prophets  spake  of  yore, 
Whom  God  a fearless  puissance  gave. 

And  then,  his  menaces  of  might. 
Lightnings  from  east  to  west  unrolled. 

Shall  pass  athwart  the  sullen  night, 

Like  glaives  that  unseen  fingers  hold. 

Tremble,  0 mountain,  to  thy  breast, 
Deep-veined  with  marble,  towering  high! 
Shiver,  0 tree  with  lofty  crest, 

To  hear  the  words  when  they  whirl  by. 

They’ll  have  the  trumpet’s  lofty  sound. 

The  shriek  that  makes  the  ravens  cower. 
The  still  small  breath,  on  graveyard  mound. 
That  stirs  the  humble  grass  and  flower. 

“ Shame  to  the  Tyrant ! ” they  shall  shout, 
“ Shame  to  the  vile,  vile  homicide ! ” 

And  weakest  souls  shall  round  about 
Gather  like  warriors  brave  and  tried. 

Upon  the  race  transforming  now 
The  words  shall  like  a storm-cloud  wheel, 
And  if  the  living  hide  their  brow. 

The  dead  shall  wake  with  fire  and  steel. 


THE  FOURTH  OF  DECEMBER,  1851 

Jouissez  du  repos  que  vous  donne  le  maxtre 

Have,  now,  fruition  of  your  prince’s  gift  — repose. 
Once  you  had  hearts,  it  may  be,  sensible  of  woes. 
Haunted  by  dreams  of  bliss; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


615 


Error  distracted  you  — envy  or  hate  or  strife; 

Your  lips,  whence  yester-eve  issued  the  breath  of  life. 
Opened  to  cheer  or  hiss. 

Faces  that  one  another  hurriedly  might  greet. 

You  came  and  went  in  multitudes  along  the  street, 
Having  no  fixed  abode; 

Eestless  as  water  that  winds  onward  through  the 
plains, 

Moving  at  random  all,  enduring  the  same  pains. 
Travelling  the  self-same  road. 

There  was  a fire,  perchance,  blazed  in  your  brain 
of  man, 

A hope,  a scheme  to  crush  him  of  the  Vatican, 

Him  of  the  Elysee, 

And  spread  the  spirit  of  liberty  from  pole  to  pole ; 
For  nations  are  volcanoes,  and  a flame  each  soul 
In  this  our  burning  day. 

Haply  you  loved;  your  hearts  were  taken  in  the  net. 
At  eventide,  a prey  to  many  a sharp  regret, 

To  many  a vain  affright, 

You  felt  a thousand  impulses  within  you  stir; 

Even  as  the  ocean  feels  its  waves  move  livelier 
While  heaven  around  is  bright. 

And  whatsoe’er  you  were,  ardent  or  stern  or  wise. 
Whether  the  fires  of  youth  were  sparkling  in  your 
eyes, 

Or  age  had  bowed  your  forms. 

Whether  your  lot  were  mourning,  mirth  or  mystery, 
Sorrow  was  yours  to  feel  with  all  its  agony, 

And  love  with  all  its  storms. 


616 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Thanks  to  the  Fourth  December,  freed  from  care, 
to-day 

Stretched  at  full  length  you  lie,  deep  in  the  ice-cold 
clay, 

Wrapt  in  the  all-shrouding  fleece. 

Ye  Dead!  the  grass  grows  noiseless  o’er  your  cata- 
combs. 

Sleep  in  your  coffin-shells  — keep  silence  in  your 
tombs ! 

Is  not  the  Empire  peace  ? 


THE  MASS  OF  THE  FIEST  OF  JANUARY  1852 

Pretre,  ta  messe,  echo  des  feux  de  peloton 

The  fusillade  finds  cadence  in  a psalm. 

Thy  masses,  Priest,  are  sins. 

Death,  with  his  chin  upon  his  bony  palm. 

Behind  thee  squats,  and  grins. 

Angels  and  virgins  shudder  at  the  sight 
In  heaven  whence  we  came, 

When  bishops  take  the  linstock-match,  to  light 
The  altar-taper’s  flame. 

Thou  covetest  a salary  and  a seat. 

In  this  new  Turk’s  divan; 

Take  it;  yet  wait,  till  they  have  sluiced  the  street. 
Before  thou  bless  thy  man. 

Glory  to  Gessler!  Death  to  William  Tell! 

The  organ  gasps  and  groans. 

Slabs  they  have  taken  from  the  morgue  may  well 
Serve  thee  for  altar-stones. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  617 

“ We  laud  thee,  God,  for  thy  omnipotence. 

Mighty  ” — thou  say’st  — “ to  save ; ” 

And  a stench  mingles  with  thy  frankincense 
Out  of  the  half-closed  grave. 

Slaughtered  by  night,  and  slaughtered  at  mid-day. 
Men,  women,  babes  expire; 

A vulture,  not  an  eagle,  wings  his  way 
To  thy  cathedral  spire. 

Pray  for  the  felon,  whom  thou  honourest  — 
(Martyrs,  you  hear  the  prayer!) 

On  high  God  sees  thee,  and  thy  blessings,  priest, 

Are  turned  to  curses  there. 

The  huddled  convicts,  hurried  o’er  the  wave 
To  Algiers,  to  Cayenne, 

From  Bonaparte  in  Paris  turn  — to  brave 
The  tiger  in  his  den. 

Exile  has  reaped  the  craftsmen  and  the  poor. 
Peasants  from  labour  reft; 

So  be  it;  but  look  to  thy  right  hand,  Sibourl 
Look,  Bishop,  to  thy  left ! 

Thy  deacon  is  Treason,  Fraud  thy  acolyte; 

Thy  God,  thy  soul  is  sold. 

Put  on  thy  mitre  and  thy  alb  of  white! 

Sing,  perjured  priest  and  old! 

Murder  attends  thee  in  the  rite  divine. 

Firing  on  those  who  fled. 

Satan  stands  server;  and  it  was  not  wine 
Stained  thy  ciborium  red. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


ART  AND  THE  PEOPLE 
L’art , cest  la  gloire  et  la  joie 


I. 

Art,  ’tis  a glory,  a delight; 

I’  the  tempest  it  holds  fire-flight. 

It  irradiates  the  deep  blue  sky. 

Art,  splendour  infinite. 

On  the  brow  of  the  People  doth  sit, 

As  a star  in  God’s  heaven  most  high. 

Art,  ’tis  a broad-flowered  plain. 

Where  Peace  holds  beloved  reign; 

’Tis  the  passionate  unison 
Of  music  the  city  hath  made 
With  the  country,  the  man  with  the  maid. 
All  sweet  songs  made  perfect  in  one! 

Art,  ’tis  Humanity’s  thought. 

Which  shatters  chains  century-wrought ! 

Art,  ’tis  the  conqueror  sweet! 

Unto  Art,  each  world-river,  each  sea ! 

Slave  People,  ’tis  Art  makes  free ; 

Free  People,  ’tis  Art  makes  great! 

ii. 

0 chivalrous  France,  without  cease 
Chant  loudly  thy  hymn  of  peace, — 

Chant,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  sky ! 

Thy  joyous  voice  and  profound 
Through  the  slumbering  world  doth  resound 
0 noble  People,  chant  high ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


619 


True  People,  chant  gladly  the  dawn ! 

At  even  raise  song  as  at  morn ! 

After  labour  sweet  singing  should  be. 
Laugh  for  the  century  overthrown ! 

Sing  love  in  a tender  tone. 

And  loudlier  chant  Liberty ! 

Chant  Italy  sacred  and  sweet, 

Poor  Poland,  slain  sons  at  her  feet, 
Naples,  whose  heart-blood  outpours, 
Hungary,  the  Eussian’s  base  vaunt.  . . 
0 tyrants!  the  People  doth  chant 
Even  as  the  lion  roars ! 


IMPEEIAL  EEVELS 

Courtisans!  attables  dans  la  splendide  orgie 

Cheer,  courtiers ! round  the  banquet  spread  — 

The  board  that  groans  with  shame  and  plate. 
Still  fawning  to  the  sham-crowned  head 
That  hopes  front  brazen  turneth  fate ! 

Drink  till  the  comer  last  is  full, 

And  never  hear  in  revels’  lull. 

Grim  Vengeance  forging  arrows  fleet. 

Whilst  I gnaw  at  the  crust 
Of  exile  in  the  dust  — 

But  Honour  makes  it  sweet ! 

Ye  cheaters  in  the  tricksters’  fane. 

Who  dupe  yourself  and  trickster-chief. 

In  blazing  cafes  spend  the  gain. 

But  draw  the  blind,  lest  at  his  thief 
Some  fresh-made  beggar  gives  a glance 
And  interrupts  with  steel  the  dance! 


620 


THE  POEMS  OP  VICTOR  HUGO 


•But  let  him  toilsomely  tramp  by, 

As  I myself  afar 
Follow  no  gilded  ear 
In  ways  of  Honesty. 

Ye  troopers  who  shot  mothers  down, 

And  marshals  whose  brave  cannonade 
Broke  infant  arms  and  split  the  stone 

Where  slumbered  age  and  guileless  maid  — 
Though  blood  is  in  the  cup  you  fill, 

Pretend  it  “ rosy  ” wine,  and  still 
Hail  Cannon  “ King ! ” and  Steel  the  “ Queen ! 
But  I prefer  to  sup 
From  Philip  Sidney’s  cup  — 

True  soldier’s  draught  serene. 

Oh,  workmen,  seen  by  me  sublime. 

When  from  the  tyrant  wrenched  ye  peace. 
Can  you  be  dazed  by  tinselled  crime, 

And  spy  no  wolf  beneath  the  fleece  ? 

Build  palaces  where  Fortunes  feast. 

And  bear  your  loads  like  well-trained  beast. 
Though  once  such  masters  you  made  flee! 

But  then,  like  me,  you  ate 
Food  of  a blessed  fete  — 

The  bread  of  Liberty! 


CHANSON" 

La  femelle!  elle  est  morte 

The  female  ? She  is  dead. 

The  male  ? The  cat  has  fed 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


To  the  nest  which  will  come? 

Oh,  poor  birdlings,  be  dumb ! 

But  they  moan,  the  weak  things,  and  they  moan* 

The  shepherd  ? Gone  or  fled. 

The  dog  ? Killed,  and  instead 
The  wolf  prowling  alone. 

He  peers  in, — Ho,  I come ! 

He  may  pity,  hope  some: 

Oh,  poor  lambs,  the  wolfs  heart  is  of  stone. 


The  man?  To  prison  led. 

The  mother?  Sick  a-bed 
In  a workhouse  is  thrown. 

It  is  cold  — will  she  come? 

They  cry  — cry  for  a crumb, 

Poor  children ! And  no  mercy  is  shown. 


A SOUVENIR  OF  THE  NIGHT  OF  THE 
FOURTH 

U enfant  avait  regu  deux  balles  dans  la  tete 

The  child  had  received  two  balls  in  the  head, 

But  his  bosom  still  throbbed ; he  was  not  dead ; 

The  house  was  humble,  peaceable  and  clean, 

A portrait  on  the  wall  — beneath  was  seen 
A branch  blessed  by  the  priest,  for  good  luck  kept; 
An  old  grandmother  sat  quiet  and  wept. 

We  undrest  him  in  silence.  His  pale  lips 
Oped ; Death  on  his  eye  cast  fiercest  its  eclipse ; 

His  arms  hung  down ; he  seemed  in  a trance ; 

A top  fell  out  from  his  pocket  by  chance; 

The  holes  of  his  wounds  seemed  made  by  a wedge : 
Have  you  seen  mulberries  bleed  in  a hedge  ? 


623 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


His  skull  was  open  like  wood  that  is  split; 

The  grandmother  looked  on,  at  us,  and  it. 

“ God ! How  white  he  is  — bring  hither  the  lamp/’ 
She  said  at  last,  “ and  how  his  temples  are  damp ! 
And  how  his  poor  hair  is  glued  to  his  brow ! ” 

And  on  her  knee  she  took  him  — undrest  now. 

The  night  was  dreary;  random  shots  were  heard 
In  the  street;  death’s  work  went  on  undeterred. 
“We  must  bury  the  child,”  whispered  our  men. 

And  they  took  a white  sheet  from  the  press;  then. 
Still  unconscious  of  the  death  of  her  boy, 

The  grandmother  brought  him,  her  only  joy, 

Close,  close  to  the  hearth,  in  hopes  that  the  fire 
His  stiffening  limbs  with  warmth  would  inspire. 
Alas ! When  death  touches  with  hands  ice-chill 
Nothing  again  can  warm,  do  what  we  will. 

She  bent  her  head,  drew  off  the  socks,  and  took 
The  naked  feet  in  hands  withered  that  shook. 

Ah ! Was  not  that  a sight  our-Jhearts  to  tear ! 

Said  she,  “ Sir,  he  was  not  eight ; and  so  fair ! 

His  masters  — he  went  to  school  — were  content ; 

He  wrote  all  my  letters,  on  errands  went 
When  I had  need;  and  are  they  going  now 
To  kill  poor  children?  The  brigands  allow 
Such  to  pass  free.  Are  they  brigands?  Or  worse? 
A Government ! ’Tis  a scourge  and  a curse ! 

He  was  playing  this  morn,  alert  and  gay, 

There  by  that  window,  in  the  sun’s  bright  ray, 

Why  did  they  kill  the  poor  thing,  at  his  play? 

He  passed  on  to  the  street ; was  that  a crime  ? 

They  fired  on  him  straight ; they  wasted  no  time. 
Sir,  he  was  good  and  sweet  as  an  angel. 

Ah ! I am  old ; by  the  blessed  Evangel 
I should  have  left  the  sad  earth  with  light  heart, 

If  it  would  have  pleased  Monsieur  Bonaparte 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


623 


To  kill  me  instead  of  this  orphan  child  !.  ” 

She  stopped,  sobs  choked  her,  then  went  on  more 
wild. 

While  all  wept  around,  e’en  hearts  made  of  stone  — • 
“ What’s  to  become  of  me,  left  now  alone  ? 

Oh ! Tell  me  this,  for  my  senses  get  dim  — 

His  mother  left  me  one  child, — only  him. 

Why  did  they  kill  him,—  I would  know  it, — why  ? 
Long  live  the  Republic,  he  did  not  cry, 

When  that  shout,  like  a wave,  came  rolling  high.” 

We  stood  silent,  heads  low,  hearts  full  of  grief. 
Trembling  before  a sorrow  past  relief* 

Mother,  you  understand  no  politics, — 

Monsieur  Napoleon,  that’s  his  true  name,  sticks 
To  his  rights.  Look,  he  is  poor,  and  a prince. 

He  loves  palaces  he  enjoyed  long  since, 

It  suits  him  to  have  horses,  servants,  gold 
For  his  table,  his  hunt,  his  play  high  and  bold, 

His  alcove  rich-decked,  his  furniture  brave. 

And  by  the  same  occasion  he  may  save 
The  Family,  Society,  and  the  Church; 

Should  not  the  eagle  on  the  high  rock  perch  ? 

Should  he  not  take  advantage  of  the  time 
When  all  ends  can  be  served  ? ’Twould  be  a crime. 
He  must  have  Saint-Cloud  bedecked  with  the  rose 
Where  Prefects  and  Mayors  may  kiss  his  toes. 

And  so  it  is, — that  old  grandmothers  must 
Trail  their  grey  hair  in  the  mire  and  the  dust. 

While  they  sew  with  fingers  trembling  and  cold, 

The  shroud  of  poor  children,  seven  years  old. 


624 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


APOSTROPHE  TO  NATURE 

O soleil,  6 face  divine 

0 Sun  ! bright  face  aye  undefiled ; 

0 flowers  i’  the  valley  blooming  wild; 

Caverns,  dim  haunt  of  Solitude; 
Perfume  whereby  one’s  step’s  beguiled 
Deep,  deep  into  the  sombre  wood ; — 

0 sacred  hills  that  heavenward  climb. 

White  as  a temple-front,  sublime; 

Old  oaks,  that  centuries  might  inherit, — 
Somewhat  whereof  I feel  (what  time 

’Neath  you  I stand)  endues  my  spirit;  — 

0 virgin  forest,  crystal  spring, 

Lake  where  no  storm  for  long  can  fling 

Darkness,  clear  heaven-reflecting  face ; — 
Pure  soul  of  Nature  unslumbering, 

What  think  you  of  this  bandit  base  ? 

THE  EXILE’S  CHOICE 

Puisque  le  juste  est  dans  Vabime 

Since  Justice  slumbers  in  the  abysm, 

Since  the  Crime’s  crowned  with  despotism. 
Since  all  most  upright  souls  are  smitten. 
Since  proudest  souls  are  bowed  for  shame. 
Since  on  the  wall  in  lines  of  flame 
My  country’s  dark  dishonour’s  written; 

0 grand  Republic  of  our  sires, 

Pantheon  filled  with  sacred  fires. 

In  the  free  azure  golden  dome. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


625 


Temple  with  Shades  immortal  thronged. 
Since  thus  thy  glory  they  have  wronged, 
With  “ Empire  ” staining  Freedom’s  home ; 

Since  in  my  country  each  soul  born 
Is  base;  since  there  are  laughed  to  scorn 
The  true,  the  pure,  the  great,  the  brave, 
The  indignant  eyes  of  history, 

Honour,  law,  right,  and  liberty, 

And  those, — alas ! — within  the  grave ; 

Solitude,  exile!  I love  them! 

Sorrow,  be  thou  my  diadem ! 

Poverty  love  I, — for  ’tis  pride! 

My  rugged  home  winds  beat  upon; 

And  even  that  awful  Statue  wan 
Aye  seated  silent  by  my  side. 

I love  the  woe  that  proves  me  strong; 

That  shadow  of  fate  which  all  ye  throng; 

0 ye  to  whom  high  hearts  aye  bow, — 
Faith,  Virtue  veiled,  stern  Dignity, 

And  thou,  proud  Exile,  Liberty, 

And,  nobler  yet,  Devotion  thou ! 

I love  this  islet  lonely,  bold, 

Jersey,  whereover  England’s  old 

Free  banner  doth  the  storm-blast  brave; 
Yon  darkling  ocean’s  ebb  and  flow. 

Its  vessels,  each  a wandering  plough, 

Whose  mystic  furrow  is  the  wave. 

I love  thy  gull,  with  snowy  wing 
In  pearls  to  the  wind  blithe  scattering, 

0 ocean  vast,  thy  sunny  spray; 


626 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Who  darts  beneath  huge  billows  gaping, 

Soon  from  those  monstrous  throats  escaping 
As  a soul  from  sorrow  flits  away ! 

I love  the  rock  — how  solemn,  stern ! 

Thence  harkening  aye  the  plaint  eterne 
On  the  wild  air  around  me  shed. 

Ever  the  sullen  night  outpours, — 

Of  waves  that  sob  on  sombre  shores, 

Of  mothers  mourning  children  dead ! 

THE  SOLDIERS  OF  THE  FIRST  REPUBLIC 
0 soldats  de  Van  deux!  6 guerres!  epopees! 

Soldiers  of  the  Year  Two ! Warriors,  who  drew  your 
swords 

Against  the  kings,  against  Austrian,  Prussian  hordes 

Swarming  to  the  attack. 

And  against  all  the  Tyves  and  Sodoms  where  you 
came  — 

Against  the  Czar  of  the  North,  hunter  of  human 
game. 

Followed  by  all  his  pack ; 

Against  all  Europe  with  her  captains  armed  for  war. 

With  all  her  foot-soldiers  blackening  her  plains  afar. 

With  all  her  squadrons  fleet 

Rolling  forward,  erect,  as  a live  hydra  rolls. 

You  chanted  as  you  marched,  with  no  fear  in  your 
souls. 

With  no  shoes  on  your  feet ! 

Everywhere,  east  and  west,  to  the  south,  to  the  north, 

With  their  old  muskets  rattling  on  their  shoulders, 
forth. 

Over  the  hills,  the  streams, 


THE  POEMS  OE  VICTOR  HUGO 


627 


Sleepless,  reposeless,  out  at  elbows,  they  would  pass. 

Foodless  and  proud  and  glad,  blowing  on  their  horns 
of  brass 

Like  the  bad  spirits  in  dreams. 

With  the  high  thought  of  liberty  their  souls  waxed 
great. 

Ships  are  taken  by  storm,  frontiers  obliterate 
Before  them  as  they  go. 

0 France,  every  day  some  miracle  was  there, 

Shocks  and  encounters,  fights!  On  the  Adige  Jou- 
bert. 

And  on  the  Rhine  Marceau ! 

The  vanguard  they  overcame,  the  centre  they  over- 
threw ; 

In  the  snow,  in  the  rain,  water  their  middles  to. 

On  they  went,  ever  on; 

And  one  flung  wide  his  gates,  and  one  was  brought 
to  his  knees; 

And  as  dead  leaves  go  flying  before  the  flying  breeze 
Throne  after  throne  was  gone. — 

The  Revolution  shouted  to  them  “ Volunteers, 

Die  for  the  liberties  of  all  mankind  — your  peers ! ” 
“We  are  content”  they  said; 

“ Forward,  my  grey  recruits,  my  beardless  generals ! ” 

And  proudly  they  marched  forth,  to  the  sound  of  bare 
foot-falls. 

Over  the  world  dismayed. 

Nothing  they  knew  of  terror,  nothing  of  despair. 

They  would  have  scaled,  doubtless,  the  ramparts  of 
the  air 

If,  turning  back  their  eyes 


628 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


In  their  Olympian  course,  they  had  but  seemed  to  see 
The  finger  of  the  great  Republic  silently 
Pointing  them  to  the  skies! 


NAPOLEON  THE  LITTLE 

Ah!  tu  finiras  hien  par  hurler,  miserable! 

How  well  I knew  this  stealthy  wolf  would  howl. 
When  in  the  eagle  talons  ta'en  in  air ! 

Aglow,  I snatched  thee  from  thy  prey  — thou 
fowl  — 

I held  thee,  abject  conqueror,  just  where 
All  see  the  stigma  of  a fitting  name 

As  deeply  red  as  deeply  black  thy  shame! 

And  though  thy  matchless  impudence  may  frame 
Some  mask  of  seeming  courage  — spite  thy  sneer. 
And  thou  assurest  sloth  and  skunk:  “It  does  not 
smart ! ” 

Thou  feel’st  it  burning,  in  and  in, — and  fear 
None  will  forget  it  till  shall  fall  the  deadly  dart ! 


FABLE  OK  HISTORY 

(Bismarck  and  Napoleon  III.) 

Un  jour,  maigre  et  sentant  un  royal  appetit 

One  fasting  day,  itched  by  his  appetite, 

A monkey  took  a fallen  tiger’s  hide 
And,  where  the  wearer  had  been  savage,  tried 
To  overpass  his  model.  Scratch  and  bite 
Gave  place,  however,  to  mere  gnash  of  teeth  and 
screams, 

But,  as  he  prowled,  he  made  his  hearers  fly 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


629 


With  crying  often:  “See  the  Terror  of  your 
dreams ! ” 

Till,  far  too  long,  none  ventured  thither  nigh. 
Left  undisturbed  to  snatch,  and  clog  his  brambled 
den 

With  sleepers*  bones  and  plumes  of  daunted  doves. 
And  other  spoil  of  beasts  as  timid  as  the  men, 

Who  shrank  when  he  mock-roared,  from  glens  and 
groves  — 

He  begged  his  fellows  view  the  crannies  crammed 
with  pelf 

Sordid  and  tawdry,  stained  and  tinselled  things, 
As  ample  proof  he  was  the  Eoyal  Tiger’s  self ! 

Year  in,  year  out,  this  still  he  purrs  and  sings 
Till  tramps  a butcher  by  — he  risks  his  head  — 

In  darts  the  hand  and  crushes  out  the  yell. 

And  plucks  the  hide  — as  from  a nut  the  shell  — 
He  holds  him  nude,  and  sneers:  “An  ape  you 
dread ! ” 


THE  CITY  MAN  AT  HOME 
II  est  certains  bourgeois,  pretres  du  dieu  Boutique 

There  is  a sort  of  townsfolk,  priests  of  the  God  of 
gains. 

Men  who  have  more  of  Chremes  than  Cato  in  their 
veins. 

Who  walk  about  with  bill-clips  when  the  Exchange  is 
full. 

Who  for  the  golden  calf’s  sake  accept  the  brazen 
bull 

Who  can  put  up  with  Phalaris  for  love  of  their 
strong  box, 

And  above  all  set  store  on  their  dividends  and  stocks. 


630 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


In  other  things  good  fellows,  but  of  the  coarser  grain ; 

They  voted  Aye ; to-morrow  they  mean  to  vote  again. 

If  they  turn  over  a pamphlet,  while  smoking  their 
cigars. 

Expressed  with  any  freedom  — their  feet  upon  the 
bars. 

Thus  to  themselves  such  voters  take  count  of  what 
is  what: 

“ This  book  is  very  shocking ; what  right  has  this 
man  got 

To  be  upright  and  lofty,  when  I am  cowardly  ? 

In  blaming  Bonaparte,  the  fellow  censures  me. 

I hold  the  man  a scoundrel,  as  much  as  he  can  do; 

But  wherefore  must  he  say  so?  This  Bonaparte, — 
true, 

Is  faithless,  is  disloyal  — a perjurer,  a thief, 

A forger,  that  is  certain;  his  policy,  in  brief, 

Is  pillage;  he  has  outlawed  even  judges  of  assize; 

Of  the  Orleans  princes’  purses  he  has  made  private 
prize ; 

He  is  the  greatest  blackguard  that  ever  went  unhung ; 

But,  since  I voted  for  him,  this  scribe  should  hold 
his  tongue. 

To  write  against  him  is  to  be  hard  on  me,  in  fact ; 

It  is  to  come  and  tell  me  — “ This  is  how  brave  men 
act ! ” 

And  ’tis  a way  of  saying,  or  getting  it  implied, 

That  we  are  good  for  nothing,  who  do  not  take  a 
side. 

cc  Oh  yes,  I must  admit  it,  we  have  the  handcuffs  on. 

What  then  ? The  funds  were  falling,  and  something 
must  be  done. 

’Twas  of  the  Red  Republic  that  people  were  afraid; 

Or  even  of  the  Republic  of  a much  paler  shade. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


631 


To  save  us  from  the  spectre  that  Monsieur  Eomieu 
drew, 

We  prudently  take  shelter  behind  this  knavish  crew : 
To  escape  a reign  of  terror,  avoid  a peasants*  war. 

We  find  this  varlet  handy  — we  make  him  emperor. 
The  thing  is  very  simple.  Now,  when  the  press 
speaks  ill 

Of  this  administration,  I feel  a painful  thrill. 

For  him  to  get  a whipping  may  possibly  be  right ; 
But  this  is  to  insinuate  that  I,  a peaceful  wight. 

Who  made  the  scamp  a consul  — an  emperor  — ap- 
pear 

To  have  cheered  him  from  self-interest,  and  voted 
Aye  through  fear. 

I think  it  most  uncivil  that  such  things  should  be 
said. 

Because  I pull  discretion,  like  bedclothes,  round  my 
head. 

I can  see  nothing  tempting,  just  now,  in  bravery, 
And  courage,  in  another,  puts  an  affront  on  me/* 

Thinkers,  when  you  are  branding  this  caitiff  as  is 
meet. 

Who  has  stripped  Justice  naked  and  scourged  her  in 
the  street. 

When  you  avenge  a people,  thus  taken  by  the  throat. 
You  take  up  your  position  between  Gerontes,  who 
vote. 

And  a Sbogar,  who  governs;  and  your  too  burning 
pen  — 

Anarchic  — irreligious  — attaints  your  countrymen. 
Both  governor  and  governed,  either  of  crime  or  vice. 
Him,  for  his  felon  treason ; them,  for  cowardice. 


632 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


A LAMENT 

Sentiers  oil  Vherbe  se  balance 

0 paths  whereon  wild  grasses  wave ! 

0 valleys!  hillsides!  forests  hoar! 

Why  are  ye  silent  as  the  grave  ? 

For  One,  who  came,  and  comes  no  more ! 

Why  is  thy  window  closed  of  late? 

And  why  thy  garden  in  its  sere  ? 

0 house ! where  doth  thy  master  wait  ? 

1 only  know  he  is  not  here. 

Good  dog ! thou  watchest ; yet  no  hand 
Will  feed  thee.  In  the  house  is  none. 

Whom  weepest  thou?  child!  My  father.  And 
0 wife!  whom  weepest  thou?  The  Gone. 

Where  is  he  gone?  Into  the  dark. — 

0 sad,  and  ever-plaining  surge ! 

Whence  art  thou?  From  the  convict-bark. 

And  why  thy  mournful  voice?  A dirge. 


NO 

Laissons  le  glaive  a Rome  et  le  stylet  a Sparte 

Let  Sparta  daggers  use,  and  Home  the  sword. 

But  let  not  us  in  haste  revenge  to  fetch, 

A Brutus  to  knave  Bonaparte  afford, 

But  for  a bitterer  future  keep  the  wretch. 

I warrant  you,  you  shall  be  satisfied  — 

You,  by  whom  exile’s  grievous  weight  is  borne; 
Captives  and  martyrs,  now  by  him  defied  — 

You  shall  be  sated,  you  who  grieve  and  mourn. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


633 


Still  in  the  scabbard  leave  the  impatient  blade; 

The  guilty  ne’er  is  pardoned  by  his  crime. 

Trust  the  commands  of  God,  though  long  delayed 
(The  patient  judge),  to  his  Avenger  — Time. 

Let  him  then  live  in  depths  of  infamy ; 

His  blood  would  e’en  disgrace  the  headsman’s 
stroke. 

Let  Time,  the  terrible  unknown,  draw  nigh, 

Who  chastisement  holds  hidden  ’neath  his  cloak. 

Let  him  be  crowned  as  deepest  in  disgrace, 

The  master  of  low  brows  and  hearts  defiled; 

Let  senators  vote  empires  to  his  race. 

If  he  can  find  a mate  and  have  a child. 

By  means  of  mass  and  murder  let  him  reign ; 

Of  this  Arch-Rogue  an  Emperor  let  them  make; 
And  let  the  grovelling  Church,  his  courtesan, 

Glide  to  his  den,  and  there  his  bed  partake. 

Let  Sibour  honour,  Troplong  hold  him  dear; 

Let  them  his  foot,  deep-dipt  in  blood,  embrace ; 
Let  Caesar  live  — Louvel  and  Lacenaire 

Would  count  the  killing  such  a knave  disgrace. 

Kill  not  this  man,  ye  who  on  vengeance  think  — 
Mysterious  dreamers,  solitary,  strong  — 

Who,  while  his  minions  feast,  and  with  him  drink. 
Walks  with  clenched  fist  the  murdered  dead  among. 

Our  triumph  is  secure,  with  help  from  high; 

Than  fury’s  bolt,  example  reckons  more. 

No!  — kill  him  not;  the  scathing  pillory 
Graced  sometimes  should  be  by  an  Emperor. 


634 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


SACER  ESTO 
Non,  Liberte!  non,  Peuple 

No,  Freedom!  People,  no!  He  must  not  die  — 
’Twould  be  too  simple,  too  unscorned  an  end. 

After  all  law  destroyed. — The  hour  brought  nigh, 

l When  holy  shame  must  back  to  heaven  ascend. 

i 

After  his  bloody  wager,  foully  won, 

Conqueror  by  ambush  laid,  by  fire  and  sword; 

After  his  perjury,  plots,  murders  done. 

His  false  oath  taken  — crime  by  God  abhorred. 

After  he  has  dragged  France,  stabbed  to  the  heart. 
To  his  polluted  car  tied  by  the  feet, 

Should  the  vile  wretch  by  a sword-stroke  depart. 
And  death  like  Pompey  or  like  Caesar  meet? 

No ! He  th’  Assassin  is,  who  basely  killed, 

Who  sabred,  and  shot  down  without  remorse; 

Who  has  made  houses  empty,  graves  has  filled, 

And  walks  ’neath  the  fixed  gaze  of  many  a corpse ! 

By  this  Man’s  deed  — Ephemeral  Emperor  — 
Daughters  and  sons  are  fatherless  and  sad; 

The  widow  weeps,  kneels,  sobs,  her  anguish  o’er; 
The  Mother  seems  a ghost  in  mourning  clad. 

The  reels  which  weave  his  robes  of  royalty, 

Deep  dyed,  are  wound  about  with  blood-stained 
thread ; 

Montmartre’s  Boulevard  doth  the  vat  supply, 

And  steeps  his  mantle  in  imperial  red! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


635 


He  exiles  you  to  Afric,  to  Cayenne  — 

Heroes  and  Martyrs!  whom  he  convicts  calls. 

His  dripping  Guillotine  its  knife  doth  stain, 

And  drop  by  drop  the  blood  upon  him  falls. 

When  livid  treason,  of  his  crimes  the  guide, 

Eaps  at  his  door,  he  welcomes  his  ally. — 

He  is  the  Fratricide,  the  Parricide: 

People,  on  this  account  he  must  not  die. 

Keep  the  man  living. — Noble  punishment! 

Would  that  some  day,  him  we  may  wandering  find, 
Naked,  crouched,  shivering,  like  reed  tempest  bent 
Beneath  the  execration  of  mankind. 

Clasped  by  the  past  — crammed  with  those  crimes  of 
his. 

As  with  a crown  all  bristling  o’er  with  nails. 
Seeking  dark  spots  — the  forest,  the  abyss ; 

Pale,  scared,  and  whom  the  wolf  as  kindred  hails. 

In  some  vile  hulks,  fetters  his  only  sound, 

Telling  to  the  deaf  rocks  his  vain  despair; 

Alone,  alone,  Silence  and  Hate  around  — 

Men  nowhere  near,  and  Spectres  everywhere! 

Aged,  rejected  by  Death’s  scornful  hand, 

Doomed,  abject,  trembling,  through  long  years  to 
plod  — 

People,  avoid  that  man,  marked  by  a brand : 

Let  Cain  pass  by,  for  he  belongs  to  God. 


636 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


APATHY 

Ceux  qui  vivent,  ce  sont  ceux  qui  luttent 

They  who  never  cease  to  strive 
Can  alone  be  called  alive. 

If  a purpose  fixed  we  trace 
In  their  soul  and  on  their  face. 

If  the  steep  ascent  they  climb 
Of  a destiny  sublime, 

Marching  forward  day  and  night. 

Ever  keeping  well  in  sight 
Something  worthy  of  their  love. 

Or  some  mission  from  above. 

If  their  hearts  are  good  and  true, 

If  they  know  what  they  would  do  — 

Priest  who  bows  before  the  ark. 

Worker,  pastor,  patriarch  — 

These  alone,  0 God,  are  living! 

Others  fill  me  with  misgiving; 

Dizzy  with  the  random  stress 
Of  their  being’s  emptiness, 

Theirs  is  that  most  heavy  fate. 

Without  life  to  vegetate. 

Useless,  isolated,  slow, 

They  go  trailing  here  below 
Weight  enough  their  souls  to  sink. 

Doomed  to  be,  but  not  to  think. 

They  are  called  the  mob  — the  herd. 

That  which  buzzes  and  is  stirred. 

Gapes  and  hisses,  laughs  and  cries. 

Now  assents  and  straight  denies; 
Nameless,  headless,  featureless, 

In  unmeaning  restlessness 
Ready  to  applaud  or  hoot. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


637 


Clap  or  trample  under  foot. 

These  are  they  who  perch  and  flit, 
First  condemn,  and  then  acquit, 
Doubt,  destroy,  are  gay  or  serious, 
Swear  by  Marat  — or  Tiberius. 

Names  unnumbered  and  untold, 

With  bare  arms,  or  laced  with  gold, 
Chill  and  youthless,  they  pass  by 
Without  aim,  without  a tie; 
Fragments  of  the  human  race 
Crumbling  into  dust  at  base; 

Men  forlorn  of  word  and  will, 
Shadows  round  them  deepening  still; 
Nothing  but  a twilight  ray 
Left  them  of  their  noon  of  day; 
Utterers  of  cries  of  fright; 

Wanderers  on  the  verge  of  night. 


Life  without  love  — 0 dreary  round  of  blank  inanity, 

Without  regret  for  what  has  been,  or  thought  of  what 
may  be ! 

To  walk  forthright,  not  knowing  in  what  ways  their 
steps  have  trod; 

To  join  the  laugh  at  Jupiter,  and  have  no  faith  in 
God; 

To  view  without  emotion  stars,  flowers,  and  woman- 
kind; 

Always  to  clasp  the  outward  form,  not  seek  the  in- 
ward mind; 

Always  in  quest  of  vain  results  as  vain  a path  to 
tread. 

Looking  for  nothing  from  on  high,  forgetting  even 
the  dead; 


638 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Oh  no ! I am  not  one  of  these  high-placed  or  happy 
men, 

Powerful  and  proud  — or  sneaking  safe,  hid  in  some 
unclean  den; 

I loathe  them,  and  avoid  and  fly  the  print-marks  of 
their  feet ; 

And  I would  rather  choose  to  be  — 0 pismires  of  the 
street ! 

Mob ! multitude ! 0 you  dead  hearts ! sham  men ! 

degenerate  crew! 

A wilding  in  the  woodland,  than  a living  man  like 
you. 

THE  DAWN 

Un  immense  frisson  emeut  la  plaine  obscure 

A sudden  shudder  sweeps  across  the  plain 
Still  dark.  It  is  the  morning  hour  again. 

The  hour  when  loved  Pythagoras  to  muse, 

And  Hesiod  thoughtful  walked  on  glittering  dews, 
The  hour  when,  tired  of  watching  through  the  night 
The  sombre  heavens  and  each  mysterious  light. 

The  herdsmen  of  Chaldea  felt  a chill, 

That  horror  of  deep  darkness,  and  that  thrill, 

That  comes  o*er  watchers  when  their  forces  fail. 
Down  there,  the  fall  of  water  in  the  vale 
Seems  wrinkled  in  a thousand  folds,  and  shines 
Like  a rich  satin  garment.  0’er  the  pines 
Upon  the  sad  horizon  gleams  the  Morn, 

Whose  teeth  the  pearls,  whose  lips  the  roses  scorn. 
The  oxen  dream  and  bellow;  bullfinch,  thrush, 

And  whistling  jay  awake  in  every  bush; 

And  from  the  wood  in  wild  confusion  blent 
Eesound  the  chirp  and  hum  from  throats  long  pent; 
The  sheep  display  their  fleece  across  the  fence, 


639 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

Not  white  as  snow,  but  of  a gold  intense; 

And  the  young  girl  upon  her  bed  of  down, 

Fresh  as  a rose,  black-eyed,  in  shadow  brown, 
With  shoulders  white  emerging  from  her  gown, 
But  half  awake  — thrusts  out  a foot  that  tries 
To  find  the  Chinese  slipper  ere  she  rise. 

Praise  be  to  God!  After  the  sullen  night 
Always  arrives  the  day,  the  welcome  light 
Eternal.  On  the  mount  wave  heath  and  broom, 
Nature  superb  and  tranquil  dons  her  bloom, 

The  light  awakes  the  brood,  the  young  ones  cry. 
The  cottage  lifts  its  smoke-wreath  to  the  sky, 
Arrows  of  gold  their  way  through  forests  force; 
Sooner  than  stop  the  sun  upon  its  course, 

One  might  reform  the  mean  ignoble  ways 
Of  those  that  rule  us  in  these  evil  days, 

To  honour  turn,  to  public  good  incline. 

The  soul  of  minister  and  base  divine. 


A NIGHTS  LODGING 

Aventurier  conduit  par  le  louche  destin 

Adventurer  by  squint-eyed  fortune  led 
As  to  an  inn  for  one  night’s  board  and  bed, 
Enter  the  Louvre  and  put  up  the  hired  hack  — 
Thy  Empire.  Moliere  behind  thy  back 
Beckons  to  Shakespeare,  asking  “ Can  it  be 
My  Scapin  ? ” “ Or  my  Bichard  ? ” answers  he. 

Swear,  enter,  cross  thy  forehead.  The  old  Inn 
Is  lighted  up  in  every  nook  within. 

Over  the  ancient  Seine,  nearly  in  line 

With  the  Pont  Neuf,  grimy  with  age,  the  sign 

Creeks  from  the  rusty  balcony,  where  shot 


640 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


King  Charles  the  Ninth,  once,  at  a Huguenot; 

Of  its  inscription  only  half  a word  — 

“ Sacred  ” remains ; the  end  of  “ massacred.” 

The  dingy  haunt  swarms  with  ill-favoured  throngs. 
Mid  bellowed  choruses  of  tipsy  songs 
They  laugh,  eat,  drink,  and  the  wine  flows  in  streams. 
Pole-axe  and  cleaver  dangle  from  the  beams. 

These  roaring  boys  have  somehow  drawn  a prize; 
One  brandishes  a torch  that  blinds  the  eyes ; 

“ Smash  all ! 99  cries  one ; another  “ Bag  it  all ! 99 
The  marks  of  bloody  hands  are  on  the  wall. 

The  dishes  fume;  the  red-hot  cinders  glow 
Within  the  grate;  you  see  them  come  and  go. 

With  blood-stained  hands,  in  blood-stained  cut- 
aways, 

Lick-finger  Nisards,  scullion  Rianceys. 

Behind  the  kitchen-table  sit  and  booze 
Fortoul,  Chapuys  the  Bailiff  of  Toulouse, 

Persil,  Pietri,  Carlier,  Ducos, 

Magne  — signing  their  cognomens  in  a row 
To  a death-warrant  — Forey  qualified 
De  Bondy,  Rouher  by  Radetzky’s  side, 

Drouyn  by  Haynau’s  — porkers,  fain  to  rout 
In  dung-heaps,  with  a senatorial  snout ! 

These  knaves  have  perpetrated  wickedness 
More  than  a bishop  undertakes  to  bless. 

Rummage  and  analyze  — explore,  dissect  — 

In  souls  like  theirs,  whose  growth  in  grace  is  checked. 
You  will  find  — nothing.  Up  and  enter ! Wear 
Napoleon’s  hat,  the  buskins  of  Macaire ! 

General  Bertrand  walks  before  thee;  thunder 
Of  bravos ! shouts  of  joy,  with  shrieking  under. 
Huddled  behind,  a spectral  phalanx  lies, 

Watching  thy  entrance  with  dim  staring  eyes; 

Bevies  of  sluts  about  thee  reel  and  rant. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


641 


Mixing  their  dash  of  slang  with  floods  of  cant; 

Her  ladyship  Doll  Tearsheet,  her  grace  Mag, 

Houris  with  eyes  of  jacynth,  hearts  of  slag; 

“ What  are  your  worship’s  fashions  ? Regency  ? 
(Quick,  the  hair-powder!)  or  — Directory? 

(Madras  silk  turbans !)  Do  sir,  what  you  please ; 
Your  name  is  Plum!  Walk  in,  and  take  your  ease.” 
Toward  these  beauties  — revelry’s  soiled  doves 
Light  on  the  wing  — toward  these  light  o’ loves 
Suin,  Mongis  (Turgot  and  D’Aguesseau)  steal; 
Saint  Arnaud,  he  steals,  too ! Before  his  meal 
Half  drunk  already,  Reybell  the  bandit 
Takes  Fould,  the  Jew,  for  Sibour’s  acolyte. 

Look,  brigand,  all  is  ready;  come  and  sup. 

On  the  mid  hearth  the  huge  fire  blazes  up; 

Thy  eagle-owl  is  blazoned  on  the  wall ; 

The  Commons,  one  whole  ox,  are  roasting  all 
Before  the  range ; the  dripping-pan  is  full 
Of  blood  that  frizzles ; at  the  side-table, 

Smiling  and  chattering,  they  take  their  seat, 

Magnan  that  killed  — Troplong  that  cooks  the  meat. 
The  grease  is  sputtering!  with  an  air  of  glee 
Upon  his  leathern  apron  leisurely 
The  carver,  Carrelet,  sharpens  his  snicker-snee. 

High  from  the  pot-hook  swings  the  budget  stew. 
Come,  favourite  alike  of  priest  and  Jew, 

Hope  of  the  Jesuit  and  of  Israel, 

Bound  for  the  galleys  from  thy  Picard  cell. 

To  supper ; thou  hast  earned  a full  day’s  hire ; 

Take  the  arm-chair  before  the  cheerful  fire ; 

All  here  uphold  thee  and  acclaim  thee  chief ; 

So  come,  sit  down;  play  the  good  prince,  good  thief; 
Melt  into  smiles;  warm  thyself,  dry  thyself; 

Be  private,  lay  thy  glories  on  the  shelf ; 

— What  they  call  glorious  in  this  rogue’s  retreat 


642 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Is  but  the  mud  and  blood  upon  thy  feet. 

Is  but  the  mire  that  rusts  thy  dirty  spurs; 
Illustrious  captains,  great  philosophers, 

On  their  bright  brows  may  wear  a deathless  crown; 
Thou  at  thy  boot-heels  trailest  thy  renown ; 

Take  off  thy  glory  — with  a boot-jack.  See, 

Dwarf  magnates,  pygmy  heroes,  compass  thee 
Singing  thy  praise,  thou  Tom  Thumb  Attila ; 

For  thee  they  serve  the  roast ; on  thee  Maupas, 

Thy  nigger,  waits,  and  from  the  ingle-seat 
Baroehe  thy  turnspit  snarls,  and  crawls  to  lick  thy 
feet. 

“Whilst  in  their  inn  these  brawl  and  drink  about, 
Along  a causeway  lost  in  night,  without. 

His  warrant  in  his  wallet,  mute,  austere. 

Spurring  his  tardy  horse  to  speed,  I hear  — 

As  the  dark  rain-clouds  change  to  azure  sky  — 

The  Justicer  of  God  — the  destined  Hour  — draw 
nigh. 

THE  IMPERIAL  MANTLE 1 
Oh  I vous  dont  le  travail  est  joie 

0 ye  whose  labour  is  bliss  alway, 

Blithe-winged  ones  who  have  for  prey 

But  odorous  breaths  of  azure  skies, 

Who,  ere  December  come,  far  flee. 

Sweet  thieves  of  sweetest  blooms,  0 ye 
Who  bear  to  men  the  honey  prize; 

Chaste  sippers  of  the  morning  dew. 

Who  visit  ’neath  noon’s  amorous  blue 
The  lily  glowing  like  a star, — 

1 Referring  to  Napoleon  III.’s  taking  the  bee  as  a badge. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


643 


Fond  sisters  of  May’s  flowerets  bright. 

Bees,  blithesome  daughters  of  the  light. 

From  that  foul  mantle  flit  afar ! 

Winged  warriors,  rush  upon  that  man! 

0 busy  toilers,  noble  clan, 

For  duty  and  virtue  arduous, 

With  golden  wings,  keen  darts  of  flame, 
Swarm  round  that  dull  foul  thing  of  shame. 
And  hiss : — “ For  what  hast  taken  us  ? 

“ Accurst ! We  are  the  honey-bees ! 

Our  hives  the  pride  of  cottages, 

From  homeliest  flowers  our  sweetest  sips ! 
Though  oft,  what  time  warm  June  discloses 
For  love  of  us  his  loveliest  roses, 

We’re  fain  to  alight  on  Plato’s  lips! 

“ What’s  born  of  mire  to  mire’s  inclined. 

Go,  in  his  lair  Tiberius  find, 

Charles  Ninth  his  balcony  upon. 

Go,  go,  Hymettus’  bees  scarce  grace 
Your  purple,  there  behoves  you  place 
The  black  foul  swarm  of  Montfaucon ! ” 

And  all  together  sting  him  there, — 

O tiny  warriors  of  the  air, 

Sting  blind  this  traitor  soulless,  base; 
Upon  him  swarm  from  far  and  near. 

And,  since  the  men  of  France  have  fear. 

Let  bees  of  France  the  monster  chase ! 


644 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


SEA  SONG  OF  THE  EXILES 

Adieu , patrie! 

Dear  land,  farewell! 

Waves  surge  and  swell. 

Dear  land,  farewell, — 

Blue  sky ! 

Farewell,  white  Cot,  whence  the  ripe  grapes  fall. 
Gold  blooms  that  bask  on  the  mossy  wall ! 

Dear  land,  farewell ! 

Plain,  valley,  and  hill! 

Dear  land,  farewell, — 

Blue  sky ! 

Dear  land,  farewell ! 

Waves  surge  and  swell. 

Dear  land,  farewell, — 

Blue  sky ! 

Farewell,  Betrothed  with  the  pure  pale  brow ; 
’Neath  sombre  heaven  dark  billows  we  plough. 

Dear  land,  farewell! 

In  thee  our  loves  dwell; 

Dear  land,  farewell,— 

Blue  sky! 

Dear  land,  farewell! 

Waves  surge  and  swell. 

Dear  land,  farewell, — 

Blue  sky ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


G45 


Our  eyes,  whose  tears  all  brightness  blot, 

Leave  the  dark  wave  for  a darker  lot ! 

Dear  land,  farewell! 

In  our  heart’s  a knell. 

Dear  land,  farewell, — 

Blue  sky ! 

THE  WORST  TREASON 

Le  plus  haut  attentat 

The  deepest  infamy  man  can  attain, 

Is  or  to  strangle  Rome,  or  France  enchain; 

Whatever  the  place,  the  land,  the  city  be, 

’Tis  to  rob  man  of  soul  and  liberty  — 

’Tis  with  drawn  sword  the  senate  to  invade, 

And  murder  law,  in  its  own  court  betrayed. 

To  enslave  the  land  is  guilt  of  such  black  dye, 

It  is  ne’er  quitted  by  God’s  vengeful  eye; 

The  crime  once  done,  the  day  of  grace  expires. 
Heaven’s  punishment,  which,  howe’er  slow,  ne’er 
tires. 

Begins  to  march,  and  comes  serene  and  calm, 

With  her  steel  knotted  whip  beneath  her  arm. 

THE  RETREAT  FROM  MOSCOW 

11  neigeait 

It  snowed.  A defeat  was  our  conquest  red : 

For  the  first  time  the  eagle  hung  down  its  head. 
Sombre  days ! The  Emperor  slowly  came  back. 
Leaving  behind  him  Moscow  smoking  and  black. 

Like  an  avalanche  winter  burst  amain, 


646 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


One  white  plain  past,  spread  another  white  plain. 
Nor  banner  nor  chief  any  order  could  keep. 

Late  the  grand  army,  now  bewildered  sheep. 

The  wings  from  the  centre  could  hardly  be  known. 

It  snowed.  Dead  horses  and  carts  overthrown 
Sheltered  the  wounded.  Bivouacs  forlorn 
Displayed  strange  sights,  sometimes,  as  broke  the 
morn 

Trumpeters  were  seen,  upright  at  their  post. 

Mute,  on  the  saddle,  and  covered  with  frost; 
Trumpets  of  copper  that  gave  out  no  tone. 

Fixed,  as  for  ever,  unto  lips  of  stone. 

Bullets,  grape-shot  and  shells,  mixed  with  the  snow, 
Bained  as  from  heaven  upon  the  troops  below. 
Surprised  to  find  themselves  trembling  with  cold, 
Who  ne’er  trembled  from  fear,  these  veterans  bold 
Marched  pensive;  on  their  grey  moustaches  clung 
The  hoar-frost;  torn  above  the  banners  hung. 

It  snowed, — it  snowed  continuous.  The  chill  breeze 
Whistled  upon  the  glazed  frost’s  endless  seas; 

With  naked  feet,  on,  on  they  ever  went, 

No  bread  to  eat,  and  not  a sheltering  tent. 

They  were  no  more  hearts  living,  troops  of  war, 
They  were  mere  phantoms  of  a dream,  afar 
In  darkness  wandering,  amid  vapours  dim; 

A mystery;  of  shadows  a procession  grim 
Upon  a black  sky,  to  its  very  rim. 

Solitude,  vast  and  frightful  to  behold, 

Was  everywhere, — Nemesis  mute  and  cold. 

The  snow  silently  as  it  fell  dense, 

A shroud  immense  for  this  army  immense; 

And  every  soul  felt  as  if  left  alone 

In  a wide  wilderness,  where  no  light  shone, 

To  die,  with  none  to  pity  or  to  see. 

From  this  sad  empire  shall  we  e’er  get  free  ? 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


647 


Two  foes  — the  Czar,  the  North.  The  North  is 
worst. 

Cannon  were  thrown  away  in  haste  accurst 
To  burn  the  frames  and  make  the  scant  fire  high ; 
Those  who  lay  down  wx>ke  not,  or  woke  to  die. 

Sad  and  confused,  the  groups  that  wildly  fled, 
Devoured  them  all,  the  desert  still  and  dread. 

’Neath  the  white  folds  the  blinding  snow  had  raised 
Whole  regiments  slept.  History  amazed 
Beheld  the  ruin.  What  to  this  retreat. 

Was  any  former  downfall  or  defeat; 

What  Hannibal’s  reverses  wrapped  in  gloom ! 

What  Attila’s,  when  whole  hordes  received  their 
doom ! 

Fugitives,  men  wounded,  guns,  horses,  carts, 
Tumbrils,  and  wagons,  hurried  from  all  parts 
In  wild  confusion;  at  the  bridges  oft 
The  crush  was  frightful.  Vultures  wheeled  aloft! 
Ten  thousand  men  lay  down  fatigued  to  sleep. 

And  then  perhaps  a hundred  woke;  a heap 
Of  corpses  had  the  rest  become.  One  night, 

Ney,  whom  an  army  followed  late,  in  flight, 

His  watch  disputed  with  three  Cossacks  wild. 

“ Who  goes ! Alert ! To  arms ! ” And  then  defiled 
These  phantoms  with  their  guns,  and  o’er  and  o’er. 
Came  the  same  scenes  of  tumult  and  of  gore. 

Our  troops  beheld  upon  them  headlong  fall 
Time  after  time,  at  some  strange  trumpet-call, 
Frightful,  enrapt  with  gloom,  with  cries  like  those 
Of  the  bald  vultures  ’mid  the  boundless  snows, 
Horrible  squadrons,  whirlwinds  of  wild  men. 
Perished  our  army,  fled  our  glory  then. 

The  Emperor  was  there.  He  stood  and  gazed 
At  the  wild  havoc  all  around,  amazed. 

As  on  a giant  tree  for  ages  spared 


648 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Falls  the  rude  axe,  misfortune  now  first  dared 
To  strike  upon  him,  and  he  trembling  saw, 

He,  living  oak,  his  branches  fall,  with  awe. 

Chiefs,  soldiers,  followers  died.  But  with  love, 
Those  that  remained,  all  dastard  fear  above, 

Still  watched  his  tent  to  see  his  shadow  pass 
Backwards  and  forwards.  They  believed,  alas! 

Yet  in  his  star;  it  could  not,  could  not  be; 

He  had  a work  to  do,  a destiny ! 

To  hurl  him  headlong  from  his  high  estate, 

Would  be  high  treason  in  his  bondsman  Fate. 

And  all  the  while  he  felt  himself  alone. 

Stunned  with  disasters  few  have  ever  known. 
Sudden,  a fear  came  o’er  his  troubled  soul, 

What  more  was  written  in  the  Future’s  scroll  ? 

Was  this  an  expiation?  It  must  be  so. 

For  what  ? Ftom  whom  could  he  the  meaning 
know? 

The  man  of  glory  trembled,  weak  and  pale, 

Like  some  frail  reed  beneath  an  autumn  gale. 

Where  were  his  legions  ? Scattered  on  the  plains, 

Or  buried  in  the  snow.  What  now  remains  ? 

What  hides  the  future  still?  Ah,  who  can  say? 

He  turned  to  God,  for  one  enlightening  ray. 

” Is  this  the  vengeance,  God  of  Hosts  ? ” he  cried, 
And  his  faint  murmur  on  his  pale  lips  died. 

“ Is  this  the  vengeance  ? Must  my  glory  set  ? ” 

A pause;  his  name  was  called;  of  flame  a jet 
Sprang  in  the  darkness;  a voice  answered,  “ No, 
Not  yet.”  Outside  still  lay  the  dazzling  snow. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


649 


HYMN  OF  THE  TEANSPOETED 

Prions!  void  V ombre  sereine 

Let  us  pray ! Lo,  the  shadow  serene ! 

God,  toward  Thee  our  arms  are  upraised  and  our 
eyes. 

They  who  proffer  Thee  here  their  tears  and  their 
chain 

Are  the  most  sorrowful  Thy  sorrow  tries. 

Most  honour  have  they  being  possessed  of  most  pain. 

Let  us  suffer!  The  crime  will  take  flight. 
Birds  passing, — our  cottages ! 

Winds  passing, — on  weary  knees 
Mothers,  sisters,  weep  there  day  and  night ! 
Winds,  tell  them  our  miseries! 

Birds,  bear  our  hearths  love  to  their  sight! 

Our  thought  is  uplifted  to  Thee, 

God ! The  proscribed  we  beseech  Thee  forget. 

But  give  back  her  glory  to  France  whom  we  see 
Shame-smitten;  ay!  slay  us,  us  sorrow-beset, 

Whom  hot  day  but  consigns  to  chill  night’s  agony ! 

Let  us  suffer ! The  crime  — 

As  a bowman  striketh  a mark, 

The  fierce  sun  smites  us  with  shafts  of  fire ; 

After  dire  day-labour,  no  sleep  in  night  dark; 

The  bat  that  takes  wing  from  the  marish-mire,— 
Fever, — flaps  noiseless  our  brows  — and  leaves  stark. 


Let  us  suffer ! The  crime 


65Q 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Athirst!  The  scant  water-drop  burns! 
An-hungered ! — black  bread ! work,  work,  ye  ac- 
curst ! 

At  each  stroke  of  the  pick  wild  laughter  returns 
Loud-echoed;  lo,  from  the  soil  Death  hath  burst, 
Round  a man  folds  arms,  and  to  sleep  anew  turns. 

Let  us  suffer ! The  crime  — 

What  matters  it!  Nothing  can  tame 
Us;  we  are  tortured  and  we  are  content. 

And  we  thank' high  God  toward  Whom  like  flame 
Our  hymn  burneth,  that  unto  us  suffering  is  sent, 
When  all  they  that  endure  not  suffering  bear  shame. 

Let  us  suffer ! The  crime  — 

Live  the  Republic  world-great! 

Peace  to  the  vast  mysterious  even! 

Peace  to  the  dead  sweet  slumber  doth  sate ! 

To  wan  ocean  peace,  that  blends  beneath  heaven 
Africa’s  sob  with  Cayenne’s  wail  of  hate ! 

Let  us  suffer!  The  crime  will  take  flight. 
Birds  passing, — our  cottages ! 

Winds  passing, — on  weary  knees 
Mothers,  sisters,  weep  there  day  and  night ! 
Winds,  tell  them  our  miseries! 

Birds,  bear  our  heart’s  love  to  their  sight! 

THE  OCEAN’S  SONG 
Nous  nous  promenions 

We  walked  amongst  the  ruins  famed  in  story 
Of  Rozel-Tower, 

And  saw  the  boundless  waters  stretch  in  glory 
And  heave  in  power. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


651 


0 ocean  vast ! We  heard  thy  song  with  wonder, 

The  waves  kept  time. 

“ Appear,  0 Truth ! 99  thou  sang’st  with  voice  of 
thunder, 

“And  shine  sublime! 

“ The  world’s  enslaved  and  hunted  down  by 
beagles, — 

To  despots  sold; 

Souls  of  deep  thinkers,  soar  like  mighty  eagles, 
The  Eight  uphold. 

“Be  born;  arise;  o’er  earth  and  wild  waves  bound- 
ing 

Peoples  and  suns ! 

Let  darkness  vanish ; tocsins  be  resounding, 

And  flashing,  guns ! 

“ And  you,  who  love  no  pomps  of  fogs,  nor  glamour. 
Who  fear  no  shocks. 

Brave  foam  and  lightning,  hurricane  and  clamour. 
Exiles  and  the  rocks ! ” 

TO  THOSE  WHO  SLEEP 

Reveillez-vous,  assez  de  honte! 

Enough  of  shame  — awake,  Time  cries. 

To  brave  the  bullets  and  the  guns, 

Still  at  its  hour  the  tide  must  rise, 

And  France  relies  upon  her  sons. 

How  tuck  up  sleeves  of  blouses  blue, 

Eemember,  the  men  of  Ninety-two 
Dared  twenty  kings  on  battle  plains  — 

Bastilles  again  and  vilest  chains ! 


65Z  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

What,  when  the  sires  could  Titans  brave, 

Shall  dwarfs  like  these  the  sons  enslave? 

Sweep  away  the  tryrant,  and  his  bandits  accurst ! 
God,  God  is  with  you,  let  Baal’s  priests  do  their 
worst ! 

God  is  king  over  all. 

Before  Him  who  is  strong?  Lo!  He  lifts  up  His 
hand. 

And  the  tigers  fly  howling  through  deserts  of  sand, 
And  the  sea-serpents  crawl, 

Obedient  and  meek ! He  breathes  on  idols  of  gold 
In  their  temples  of  marble,  gigantic  and  old. 

And  like  Dagon  they  fall! 

You  are  not  armed?  It  matters  not, 

Tear  out  the  hinges  of  the  door ! 

A hammer  has  deliverance  wrought; 

David  had  pebbles  from  the  shore. 

Shout  for  the  Cause  — the  flag  advance ! 

Become  once  more  the  mighty  France ! 

Paw  as  of  old  — with  lowering  horn ! 

Deliver,  amid  blood  and  smoke, 

Your  country  from  the  despot’s  yoke, 

Your  memory  from  contempt  and  scorn. 

What,  know  ye  not,  the  Eoyalists  themselves  were 
great 

In  the  fierce  days  of  struggle  past  away?  Men  re- 
late 

What  courage  urged  them  on. 

Valour  in  those  times  added  a foot  to  men’s  height, 
Witness,  0 Vendee,  If  I speak  not  aright ! 

Witness,  thou  land  Breton ! 

To  conquer  a bastion,  or  to  break  through  a wall, 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


653 


Or  spike  a whole  battery  ’mid  rain-showers  of  ball, 
Often  one  man  has  gone ! 

If  in  this  sink  still,  still  men  live, 

If  Frenchmen  still,  still  act  as  slaves. 
Trumpets  and  drums  be  broken, — give 
Their  fragments  to  the  breezes.  Graves 
Of  our  sires  where  slumber  deep 
The  old  race,  stir  no  more,  but  keep 
Their  shades  in  closest  prison  bound : 

For  never  could  they  — would  they  own 
Such  dastard  sons;  nor  hare  nor  hound 
The  lion  breeds,  but  whelps  alone. 


TO  THE  PEOPLE 

II  te  ressemble ; il  est  terrible  et  paciflque 

It  resembles  thee ; pacific  yet  dread, 

A level  under  the  Infinite  spread; 

It  moves,  ’tis  immense,  ’tis  soothed  by  a ray, 

And  kindled  to  wrath  by  Zephyr  at  play; 

’Tis  music  or  discord : sweet  is  its  song, 

Or  hoarse  its  shriek  as  complaining  of  wrong; 
Monsters  at  ease  sleep  in  its  depths  dark-green ; 
The  water-spout  germinates  there  unseen; 

It  has  gulfs  unknown,  ’neath  its  surface  plain, 
And  those  who  visit  them  come  not  again; 

It  lifts  ships  colossal  and  hurls  them  down 
As  thou  hurlest  despots.  Black  is  its  frown; 

The  beacon  above  it  shines  like  the  light 
Thou  hast  from  heaven,  thy  steps  to  guide  right; 
It  caresses  and  chides  if  soft  its  mood 
Or  angry,  but  by  no  man  understood 
Is  its  humour.  Like  the  terrible  shock 


654 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Of  armour  clangs  its  wave  on  the  rock; 

Night  listens  with  awe  to  the  portentous  sound 
As  it  feels  that,  like  thee,  the  depth  profound 
Having  roared  at  eve,  shall  destroy  at  morn, 

For  the  wave  is  a sword.  Venus  when  born 
It  hails  with  a hymn,  immense  and  sublime, 
Which  has  resounded  through  aeons  of  time: 

Its  universal  blue,  its  wide,  wide  expanse 
Shelters  the  stars  that  there  tremble  and  dance; 
It  has  a rude  force,  a mercy  superb. 

For  it  roots  up  a rock,  and  spares  an  herb; 

It  throws  like  thee  on  proud  summits  its  foam; 
Inconstant,  it  loves  round  the  world  to  roam; 
Only  — it  never  deceives  when,  with  eye 
Fixed  on  its  surface,  one  watches  it  nigh 
From  some  rock  or  the  sands,  pensive,  alone, 
Spell-bound  by  its  murmur,  grand  monotone. 


THE  PARTY  OF  CRIME 

Ainsi  ce  gouvernant  dont  Vongle  est  une  griffe 

This  Government  with  Tiger  claws  and  heart ! 
Imperial  Mask  — Fictitious  Bonaparte! 

Doubtless  Beauharnais  — Verhuell  possibly  — 

Who,  that  Rome  catholic  might  crucify 
Rome’s  free  Republic,  gave  it  bound  by  stealth ; 

That  man,  th’  Assassin  of  the  commonwealth; 
That  upstart,  whom  to  push  blind  Fortune  chose; 
That  glutton,  who  ne’er  to  ambition  rose ; 

That  “ Highness,”  base,  skilled  to  seize  lucky  times 
That  wolf,  on  whom  I loose  a pack  of  rhymes. 
What  then?  This  Buccaneer,  this  reprobate, 

Has  changed  a day  of  pride  to  shame  and  hate, 

On  glory  loaded  crime,  soiled  victory, 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


655 


And,  wretch!  robbed  Austerlitz  from  history! 

A dagger  from  that  trophy  proud  has  ta’en. 

And  townsmen,  workmen,  countrymen  has  slain ; 

Has  of  the  dead  piled  up  a dreadful  heap, 

While  his  arm-chair  did  safe  the  coward  keep. 

Sabre  in  hand,  upon  his  oath  he  rushed, 

And  justice,  right,  and  government  he  crushed: 
Law,  honour  — all,  yes  even  Hope  he  killed, 

And  with  pure  blood  (your  blood,  0 France!)  has 
filled 

All  of  our  rivers,  from  the  Seine  to  Var  — 

Thus  won  the  Louvre,  while  he  deserved  Clamar. 

And  now  he  reigns,  leaning  his  heel,  that  drips 
With  blood,  my  country!  on  thy  wounded  lips. 

This  has  he  done  — I nought  exaggerate  — 

And  when  this  Gallows-bird  we  reprobate. 

And  all  the  frauds  which  in  his  treason  teem 
(So  monstrous  one  might  think  the  whole  a dream), 
And  cry,  by  horror  roused,  with  scorn  replete, 
March,  people ! fly  to  arms ! invade  the  street, 

Down  with  that  sword,  unworthy  of  the  name. 

Let  day  re-shine,  and  right  her  reign  reclaim, 

’Tis  we,  forsooth,  proscribed  by  these  vile  curs. 

Who  are  assassins,  bandits,  murderers ; — 

’Tis  we  who  blood  and  civil  war  desire  — 

’Tis  we  who  set  the  town,  the  land  on  fire ! 

What  then?  To  reign  through  death,  to  trample 
right. 

To  be  a knave,  hard,  cynical,  adroit; 

To  say,  “ Fm  Csesar,”  while  you’re  but  a clown, 

To  stifle  thought  — life,  breath,  to  trample  down ; 

To  force  great  eighty-nine  to  retrograde, 

The  laws,  the  press,  the  tribune  to  invade ; 

To  muzzle  the  Great  Nation  as  a beast. 


656 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


To  reign  by  force,  yourself  from  fear  released; 

For  felon's  sake,  abuses  to  restore, 

And  France  to  hand  to  greedy  Troplongs  o'er, 

On  pretext  that  she  was  in  times  long  since 
Devoured  by  King,  and  Gentleman,  and  Prince; 

To  give  these  dogs  what  those  old  lions  left. 

Millions  and  palaces,  gleesome  and  deft. 

To  seize ; — plain  despotism  to  profess. 

And  riot  in  debauches  and  excess; 

Heroes  to  torture  and  the  hulks  to  give. 

The  great,  the  good,  to  exile,  and  to  live 
'Mid  Greeks,  as  for  Byzantian  despot  meet; 

To  be  the  arms  that  kill,  the  hands  that  cheat. 
People ! This  then  is  virtue,  righteousness ! 

While  justice  murder-stricken,  to  confess 
In  exile,  through  the  fumes  of  incense  base. 

Armies  to  tell  and  Tyrants  to  their  face  — 

Your  name  is  force,  injustice,  robbery. 

Soldiers  you  have,  and  vast  artillery; 

The  earth  a kingdom  'neath  your  feet  we  see  — 

You  the  Colossus,  and  the  atom  we. 

Still  we  choose  war,  for  liberty  to  fight, 

You  for  oppression,  we  for  truth  and  right ; 

To  show  the  pontons  and  dark  catacombs, 

And  cry,  while  standing  o'er  the  late  filled  tombs : 
Frenchmen,  beware  the  day  of  late  remorse, 

For  children's  tears,  and  many  a martyred  corse ; 
Break  that  sepulchral  man,  wake  France  to  light, 
Tear  from  your  flesh  that  Nero  parasite; 

Bise  from  the  blood-stained  earth,  beauteous  and 
bold, 

The  sword  one  hand,  and  one  the  law  shall  hold ! 

For  us  such  words  to  speak,  perform  this  task, 

This  Pirate  chase,  this  Hypocrite  unmask 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


657 


(Since  honour,  duty,  to  this  strife  compel), 

Is  crime ! — Hear  this.  Thou  who  on  high  dost  dwell. 
0 God ! this  they  maintain  before  Thy  face, 

Dread  witness  of  all  crimes  in  every  place : 

’Tis  this  they  spread  before  th’  Eternal  eyes ! 

What  fumes  of  blood  from  all  their  hands  arise ! 
What  babes,  old  men,  wives,  maidens,  yet  have  not 
Had  time  within  their  dismal  graves  to  rot! 

What?  Paris  still  is  bleeding,  still  each  eye 
Can  see  in  heaven  inscribed  his  perjury ! 

And  these  foul  wretches  dare  reproaches  heap! 

0 just  eruption  of  resentment  deep ! 

And  many  a sot  — triumphant,  bloated,  red  — 
Answers  — “ Your  noise  disturbs  me  in  my  bed ; 

All  goes  on  well,  tradesmen  get  rich  a-pace; 

Our  women  are  one  mass  of  flowers  and  lace. 

Of  what  do  you  complain  ? ” — Another  calls 
(Some  empty  dandy  who  the  pavement  crawls), 

“ From  ’change  each  day  some  twenty  pounds  I 
bring : 

Money  flows  free,  as  water  from  the  spring; 
Workmen  have  now  three  times  their  former  wage. 
Splendid ! To  make  and  spend  is  all  the  rage. 

It  seems  some  demagogues  are  sent  away  — 

Eight,  too  — 

I praise  the  feast,  the  ball,  the  play 
Given  by  the  'Prince,  whom  I did  erst  resist 
Wrongly.  What  matters  certain  dolts  dismissed? 

As  for  the  dead  — they’re  dead;  let  the  fools  be. 
Hail ! men  of  sense  — and  easy  times  for  me, 

Where  you  may  choose  a dozen  schemes  among, 

And  boldly  speculate,  and  can’t  go  wrong. 

The  red  republic  may  in  caverns  bark 


659 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Freedom,  Eight,  Progress.  Bosh ! — they’re  madness 
stark. 

I pocketed  a premium  even  now, 

And  I don’t  care — (I  must  the  charge  allow. 

Not  minding  the  philippics  which  you  bawl)  — 

If  prices  rise,  should  honour  chance  to  fall.” 

0 hideous  speech ! — ’tis  held  — you  hear  the  cry ! 
Learn  then  the  dregs,  contented  Infamy: 

That  once  for  all  we  to  your  face  declare, 

That  we,  the  wanderers,  scattered  everywhere, 
Eoaming  without  or  passport,  heart,  or  name  — 

We,  the  proscribed,  you  cannot  daunt  or  shame ; 

We,  to  the  land’s  disgrace  who  ne’er  consent 
(And  though  the  while  on  justice  sternly  bent), 

No  scaffolds,  no  reprisals  wish  to  have; 

We  whom  this  Mandarin  thinks  he  can  enslave, 

We  to  see  liberty  revive,  and  shame 
Die,  and  all  brows  respect  and  worth  reclaim, 

To  free  Eome,  Lombards,  Germans,  Hungary, 

To  bid  shine  forth  the  Sun  of  Freedom’s  sky, 

The  mother  Commonwealth,  and  Europe’s  guide. 
That  forge  and  palace  may  in  peace  abide; 

To  bring  that  flower.  Fraternity,  to  light, 

And  to  give  labour  uncontested  right; 

To  rescue  martyrs  from  the  galley’s  oar, 

Husbands  to  wives,  and  sons  to  sires  restore, — 

In  short,  this  mighty  nation,  and  the  age, 

From  Bonaparte  and  shame  to  disengage : 

To  reach  this  end  which  soul,  which  heart  enjoins, 
In  silence  and  in  gloom  we  gird  our  loins. 

And  know  we’re  ready,  plans  and  means  bethought  — 
The  sacrifice  is  all,  the  danger  nought  — 

Eeady,  when  God  gives  sign,  to  yield  our  breath. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


659 


For,  seeing  what  now  lives,  we  covet  death; 

For  ’neath  this  brass-browed  scoundrel,  who  would 
be? 

iWe  lost  to  country  — you  to  liberty. 

Learn  you,  who  think  free  air  might  harm  your 
health. 

You,  who  from  out  this  dunghill  dig  your  wealth 
We  will  not  let  the  land  in  slumber  lie, 

But  we  will  summon,  till  our  latest  sigh. 

To  help  of  France,  now  fettered,  strangled,  sold, 
Sacred  revolt. — Like  our  great  sires  of  old, 

We  summon  God’s  own  lightning  to  our  aid. 

This  is  our  purpose,  and  we  thus  are  made; 
Preferring,  if  Fate  wills,  to  see  our  blood 
Crushed  ’neath  His  wheels,  than  wallow  in  your  mud. 


ADVICE  AND  REPLY 
On  dit:  “ Soy  ez  prudent” 

They  say,  Oh,  be  prudent.  Then  comes  this  dithy- 
rambe : 

Wouldst  thou  strike  down  Nero? 

Then  crawl  and  be  noiseless  — a wolf  clothed  like  a 
lamb! 

Success  makes  the  hero. 

Think  of  Ettenheim;  wait;  wait  the  day  and  the 
hour. 

In  patience  be  grounded ; 

Like  Chereas,  come  alone,  silent,  sure  of  thy  power. 

By  darkness  surrounded. 


660 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Let  Prudence  conduct  thee,  thy  reward  she  shall 
give; 

Be  masked,  false  and  hollow; 

Ah  well : let  those  anxious  a long  period  to  live 
This  sage  counsel  follow. 

THE  TRUMPETS  OF  THE  MIND 
Sonnez,  sonnez  tou jours,  clairons  de  la  pensee 
Sound,  sound  for  ever,  clarions  of  thought ! 

When  Joshua  ’gainst  the  high-walled  city  fought, 
He  marched  around  it  with  his  head  raised  high, 

His  troops  in  serried  order  following  nigh, 

But  not  a sword  was  drawn,  no  blood  outsprang, 
Only  the  trumpets  the  shrill  onset  rang. 

At  the  first  blast,  smiled  scornfully  the  king, 

And  at  the  second  said,  half  wondering: 

“ Hop’st  thou  with  noise  my  fortress  to  break 
down  ? ” 

At  the  third  round,  the  ark  of  old  renown 
Swept  forward,  then  the  trumpets  sounding  loud, 
And  then  the  troops  with  ensigns  waving  proud. 
Stepped  out  upon  the  old  walls  children  dark 
With  horns  to  mock  the  notes  and  hiss  the  ark. 

At  the  fourth  turn,  braving  the  Israelites, 

Women  appeared  on  crenellated  heights  — 

Those  battlements  embrowned  with  age  and  rust  — 
And  hurled  upon  the  Hebrews  stones  and  dust, 

And  spun  and  sang  when  weary  of  the  game. 

At  the  fifth  time  up  came  the  blind  and  lame, 

And  with  wild  uproar  clamorous  and  high 
Railed  at  the  clarion  ringing  in  the  sky. 

At  the  sixth  time,  upon  a tower’s  high  crest, 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  G61 

So  high  that  there  the  eagle  built  his  nest, 

So  hard  that  on  it  lightning  struck  in  vain. 
Appeared  in  merriment  the  king  again : 

“ These  Hebrew  Jews  musicians  are,  it  seems ! ” 

He  said,  loud  laughing,  “but  they  live  on  dreams” 
The  princes  laughed  submissive  to  the  king, 

Laughed  all  the  courtiers  in  a glittering  ring, 

And  thence  the  laughter  spread  through  all  the  town. 

At  the  seventh  time  — the  city  walls  fell  down. 


THE  BLACK  HUNTSMAN 
Qu’es-tu  passant ? 

“What  art  thou,  wanderer?  The  wood  is  eerie, 

The  far  rooks  fly,  and  their  flight  grows  weary, 
Near  rides  the  rack ! 99 

“ I am  he  that  hunts  through  darkness  dreary, — 
The  Huntsman  Black ! 99 

The  faint  forest-leaves,  by  the  sharp  wind  rifted, 
Shriek  . . . one  had  said 

That  a witch’s  revel,  with  wild  cries  drifted. 
Through  the  wood  was  spread; 

In  a clear  cloud-way,  with  pale  locks  uplifted, 
The  moon  smiles  dread. 

Cleave  to  the  buck,  cleave  to  the  hind, 

Scour  the  dark  woods,  scour  wastes  yet  lined 
With  eve’s  wan  track. 

Cleave  to  the  Czar,  cleave  to  Austria  blind, 

0 Huntsman  Black! 

The  faint  forest-leaves  .... 


662 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Girth  thy  garb,  let  thy  blast  ring  not  least, 

Cleave  to  the  deer  that  wend  slowly  to  feast 
On  the  rich  grass  track. 

Cleave  to  the  king,  cleave  to  the  priest, 

0 Huntsman  Black ! 

The  faint  forest-leaves  .... 

It  thunders,  the  rain  blinds,  the  river-floods  rise! 
Ho  rest  for  the  fearful  fox  under  the  skies, — 
Thou’rt  still  on  his  track! 

Cleave  to  the  judge,  cleave  to  the  spies, 

0 Huntsman  Black! 

The  faint  forest-leaves  .... 

The  myriad  imps  of  St.  Anthony  leap 
*Mong  oats  which  wild  dance  i’  the  wind  aye  keep, 
But  can  turn  thee  not  back  — 

Cleave  to  the  monk,  goad  him  from  sleep, 

0 Huntsman  Black ! 

The  faint  forest-leaves  . . . 

Cleave  to  the  bears,  thy  hounds  in  full  cry ! 

The  wild  boar  knowing  no  shelter  shall  die : 

On,  on  with  thy  pack! 

Cleave  to  the  crowned,  to  the  mitred  Lie, 

0 Huntsman  Black! 

The  faint  forest-leaves  .... 

The  dastard  wolf  from  thy  following  has  turned; 
Bound  with  thy  hounds  for  the  death  he  hath 
earned. 

Quick,  follow  him  back ! 


m 

Or  THE 
Cf  :U !” 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


663 


Crush  the  foul  beast  that  all  pity  hath  spurned, 
0 Huntsman  Black! 


The  faint  forest-leaves,  by  the  sharp  wind  rifted, 
Fall  . . . one  had  said 

That  the  darkling  revel  with  hoarse  cries  drifted 
Through  the  wood  was  sped; 

The  clarion  of  dawn  through  the  cloud  is  up- 
lifted,— 

Sweet  sunlight’s  spread ! 

The  world  reneweth  its  old-world  might; 

Our  France  art  thou  that  of  yore  brake  night 
In  splendid  attack ; 

Our  fair  Archangel  clothed  round  with  light, 

0 Huntsman  Black! 

The  faint  forest-leaves,  by  the  sharp  wind  rifted. 
Fall  . . . one  had  said 

That  the  darkling  revel  with  hoarse  cries  drifted 
Through  the  wood  was  sped; 

The  clarion  of  dawn  through  the  cloud  is  up- 
lifted,— 

Sweet  sunlight’s  spread! 

SONG 

8a  grandeur  eblouit  Vhistoire 

He  shines  through  history  like  a sun. 

For  thrice  five  years 
He  bore  bright  victory  through  the  dun 
King-shadowed  spheres ; 


664 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Proud  Europe  ’neath  his  law  of  might 
Low-bowed  the  knee  — 

Thou,  poor  ape,  hobble  after  aright. 

Petit , petit! 

Napoleon  in  the  roar  of  fight. 

Calm  and  serene, 

Guided  athwart  the  fiery  flight 
His  eagle  keen. 

Upon  Areola  bridge  he  trod, 

And  came  forth  free  — 

Come!  here  is  gold,  adore  thy  god. 

Petit , petit! 

Yiennas  were  his  lights-o’-love, 

He  ravished  them; 

Blithely  he  seized  brave  heights  above 
By  the  iron  hem; 

Castles  caught  he  by  the  curls. 

His  bride  to  be  — 

For  thee  here  are  the  poor  pale  girls, 

Petit , petit! 

He  passed  o’er  mountains,  deserts,  plains, 
Having  in  hand 

The  palm,  the  lightning,  and  the  reins 
Of  every  land: 

Drunken,  he  tottered  on  the  brink 
Of  deity  — 

Here  is  sweet  blood ! quick,  run  to  drink. 
Petit , petit! 

Then  when  he  fell,  loosening  the  world, 
The  abysmal  sea 

Made  wide  her  depths  for  him,  down-hurled 
By  Liberty: 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


665 


Th’  archangel  plunged  from  where  he  stood. 
And  earth  breathed  free  — 

Thou ! drown  thyself  in  thy  own  mud, 

Petit,  petit! 


PATRIA  1 

La-haut,  qui  souritf 

Who  smiles  there  ? Is  it 
A stray  spirit. 

Or  woman  fair? 

Sombre  yet  soft  is  the  brow! 

Bow,  nations,  bow; 

0 soul  in  air. 

Speak  — what  art  thou  ? 

In  grief  the  fair  face  seems  — 
What  mean  these  sudden  gleams? 
Our  antique  pride  and  dreams 
Start  up,  and  beams 
The  conquering  glance, — 

To  make  our  sad  hearts  dance. 
And  wakes  in  woods  hushed  long 
The  wild  bird’s  song. 

Angel  of  Day! 

Our  Hope,  Love,  Stay, 

Thy  countenance 
Lights  land  and  sea 
Eternally, 

Thy  name  is  France 
Or  Verity. 


i Written  to  music  by  Beethoven. 


G66 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Fair  angel,  in  thy  glass 
When  vile  things  move  or  pass. 
Clouds  in  the  skies  amass; 
Terrible,  alas! 

Thy  stern  commands  are  then: 

“ Form  your  battalions,  men, 

The  flag  display ! ” 

And  men  obey. 

Angel  of  might 

Sent  kings  to  smite. 

The  words  in  dark  skies  glance, 
“Mene,  Mene;”  hiss 
Bolts  that  never  miss! 

Thy  name  is  France, 

Or,  Nemesis. 

As  halcyons  in  May, 

0 nations,  in  his  ray 
Float  and  bask  for  aye. 

Nor  know  decay ! 

One  arm  upraised  to  heaven 
Shuts  the  past  forgiven; 

One  holds  a sword 
To  quell  hell’s  horde, 

Angel  of  God! 

Thy  wings  stretch  broad 
As  heaven’s  expanse! 

To  shield  and  free 
Humanity ! 

Thy  name  is  France, 

Or,  Liberty! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


6G7 


THE  WEECK 

Cette  nuit,  il  pleuvait , la  maree  etait  haute 

Last  night  it  poured;  there  was  a high  spring-tide; 
A thick  grey  mist  covered  the  whole  sea-side; 

The  breakers  bayed  like  hounds;  the  heaving  main 
J oined  its  dark  sobbing  to  the  tears  of  rain ; 

The  unknown  shook  and  mingled  in  its  urn 
Those  rolling  lots  that  whelm  us  all  in  turn; 

The  gulfs  of  night  seemed  through  the  air  to  roar; 
I heard  the  alarm-bell  sound  along  the  shore; 

Out  of  the  gloom,  as  squall  succeeded  squall. 

For  help  — for  help  I heard  a seaman’s  call ; 

The  death-cry  of  a vessel  in  distress, 

Anchorless,  mastless,  helmless,  shelterless. 

I sallied  forth.  A scared  crone  crossed  my  track, 
Muttering,  “ She’s  gone ; it  was  a fishing-smack.” 

I ran  to  the  beach,  and  found  one  winding-sheet 
Of  mist  and  midnight  wrapped  about  my  feet; 

I stood  alone  with  an  o’ershadowing  dread ; 

The  while  the  billows,  rearing  up  their  head, 

Wroth  to  be  spied,  came  bellowing  after  me, 

Chasing  the  witness  of  their  cruelty. 

0 Thou  who  triest  the  very  heart  and  reins, 

Author  of  earthquakes.  Lord  of  hurricanes ! 

After  the  shipwreck  of  so  many  great, 

Wert  thou  of  ruin  so  insatiate 

As  on  these  humblest  to  have  set  thy  mark, 

And  merged,  at  once,  France  and  a fishing-bark? 


668 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


SONG  IN  EXILE 

A quoi  ce  proscrit  pense-t-il? 

Thoughts  of  an  exile  — what  be  they  ? 
Thoughts  of  his  ploughshare,  of  his  hoe, 
Thoughts  of  his  barley-field  or  hay, 

Thoughts  of  his  country’s  pride  brought  low. 
Ah,  the  mere  memory  can  slay! 

While  senators  receive  their  pay. 

The  banished  wretch  must  pine  and  pray. 

Man  cannot  live  without  man’s  bread; 

Without  their  native  land  men  are  as  good  as  dead. 

The  workman  of  the  work-bench  dreams. 

And  of  his  hut  the  laborer; 

The  panes  are  bright,  the  fireside  gleams. 

The  flower-pots  are  on  the  stair. 

And  in  the  nook  the  grandam’s  bed; 

All  its  adornment  the  two  pair 
Of  tassels  worn,  of  woollen  thread. 

Man  cannot  live  without  man’s  bread; 

Without  their  native  land  men  are  as  good  as  dead. 

There  bees  sought  honey  in  the  spring ; 
Sparrows,  partakers  of  the  sky, 

Ean  in  the  rye-crops,  twittering; 

They  robbed  our  fields,  those  felons  sly, 

Boldly,  like  eagles  on  the  wing; 

A ruined  castle  stood  hard  by. 

Founded  while  Pepin  yet  was  king. 

Man  cannot  live  without  man’s  bread; 

Without  their  native  land  men  are  as  good  as  dead. 

The  workman  plied  the  file,  the  plane, 

A wife  and  children  to  maintain; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


669 


He  toiled  from  dawn  till  eventide. 

And  toil  brought  solace  in  its  train, 

And  fire  from  heaven,  and  light  beside. 

Such  was,  when  they  were  young,  the  lot 
Of  Papin,  and  Jacquard,  and  Watt. 

Man  cannot  live  without  man’s  bread; 

Without  their  native  land  men  are  as  good  as  dead. 

The  artisan  on  holidays 

Left  in  the  pound  the  brood  of  care. 

And  humming  scraps  of  springtide  lays, 

With  cap  a-peak,  and  blouse  blown  free. 

Off  he  went  to  the  barrier; 

Feasted  on  dubious  rabbit,  there, 

And  drank  like  Counts  in  Hungary. 

Man  cannot  live  without  man’s  bread; 

Without  their  native  land  men  are  as  good  as  dead. 

On  Sundays,  too,  the  husbandman 
Hallooed  to  Jacqueline  or  Jeanne, 

Crying,  “ Come,  Jeanne  — come,  Jacqueline, 
Put  on  your  best  laced  cap  and  hood.” 

And  then  they  danced  upon  the  green. 

The  flowers  were  dinted  by  the  tread 
Not  of  silk  shoes,  but  shoes  of  wood. 

Man  cannot  live  without  man’s  bread; 

Without  their  native  land  men  are  as  good  as  dead. 

The  exiles  wander  far,  and  muse, 

And  lead  a life  that’s  maimed  and  marred. 
Their  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  yews 
That  shade  the  graves  in  the  graveyard : 

And  one  recalls  the  Tuscan  strand. 

Another  Poland  the  ill-starred. 

And  one  the  German  fatherland. 


670 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Man  cannot  live  without  man’s  bread; 

Without  their  native  land  men  are  as  good  as  dead. 

And  one,  awearied  of  the  sky. 

Lay  dying.  Calm  and  steadfast-eyed 
He  closed  the  page.  “Nay,  wherefore  die?” 

“ Wherefore  be  living  ? ” he  replied. 

“ Farewell ; by  dying  freed  am  I ; 

A Scapin-tyrant,  Nero-knave, 

Holds  France  in  fetters  of  a slave.” 

Man  cannot  live  without  man’s  bread; 

Without  their  native  land  men  are  as  good  as  dead. 

“ I die  of  grief  no  more  to  see 
The  meadows  where  I met  the  dawn. 

No  more  to  hear  the  minstrelsy 
Of  singing  birds  upon  the  lawn. 

My  heart  is  where  I cannot  be. 

Out  of  four  pine-boards  make  my  bed 
And  in  the  prairie  bury  me.” 

Man  cannot  live  without  man’s  bread; 

Without  their  native  land  men  are  as  good  as  dead. 


SUNRISE 

II  est  des  jours  objects  oil , seduits  par  la  joie 

Foul  times  there  are,  when  nations  spiritless 
Throw  honour  away 
For  tinsel  glory ; to  base  happiness 
A mournful  prey. 

Then  from  the  nations,  fain  of  lustful  rest, 

Dull  slavery’s  dreams. 

All  virtue  ebbs,  as  from  a sponge  tight-pressed 
Clear  water  streams. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


671 


Then  men,  to  vice  and  folly  docile  slaves. 

Aye  lowly  inclined, 

Ape  the  vile  fearful  reed  that  stoops  and  waves 
For  every  wind. 

Then  feasts  and  kisses ; nought  that  saith  the  soul 
Stirs  shame  or  dread ; 

One  drinks,  one  eats,  one  sings,  one  skips, — is  foul 
And  comforted. 

Crime,  ministered  to  by  loathsome  lackeys,  reigns; 
Year  ’neath  God’s  fires 

Laughs ; and  ye  shiver,  sombre  dread  remains 
Of  glorious  sires. 

All  life  seems  foul,  with  vice  intoxicate. 

Aye  thus  to  be : 

Sudden  a clarion  unto  all  winds  elate 
Peals  Liberty! 

And  the  dull  world,  whose  soul  this  blast  doth  smite. 
Is  like  to  one 

Drunken  all  night,  upstaggering  ’neath  the  light 
O’  the  risen  sun! 


AFTER  THE  COUP  D’ETAT 
Devant  les  trahisons. 

Before  foul  treachery  and  heads  bent  down, 

I’ll  fold  mine  arms,  indignant  but  serene. 

0 faith  in  fallen  things, — be  thou  my  crown. 

My  force,  my  joy,  the  prop  on  which  I lean : 

Yes,  whilst  he's  there,  or  struggle  some,  or  fall, 

0 France,  dear  France,  for  whom  I weep  in  vain. 


672 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Tomb  of  my  sires,  nest  of  my  loves, — my  all, 

I ne’er  shall  see  thee  with  these  eyes  again. 

I shall  not  see  thy  sad,  sad  sounding  shore, 

France,  save  my  duty,  I shall  all  forget; 

Amongst  the  true  and  tried,  I’ll  tug  mine  oar, 

And  rest  proscribed  to  spurn  the  fawning  set. 

O bitter  exile,  hard,  without  a term, 

Thee  I accept,  nor  seek  nor  care  to  know 
Who  have  down-truckled  ’mid  the  men  deemed  firm, 
And  who  have  fled,  that  should  have  fought  the 
foe. 

If  true  a thousand  stand,  with  them  I stand; 

A hundred?  ’tis  enough:  we’ll  Sylla  brave; 

Ten?  put  my  name  down  foremost  in  the  band; 
One?  Well,  alone, — until  I find  my  grave. 


LUX 

i. 

Temps  future!  vision  sublime 

0 future  ! Fair  vision  of  light ! 

The  nations  win  free  of  the  night. 

The  desert  is  all  passed  o’er. 

After  the  sand-drifts,  the  plains; 

And  earth  is  a bride  in  love-chains,- 
’Tis  man  they  are  suffered  for! 

Even  now  the  uplifted  eye 
Sees  clearly  fair  dreams  float  by 
Which  one  day  shall  shine  and  not  move: 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


673 


For  God  will  cast  off  the  chain-weight, 

For  the  past  hath  a fell  name, — Hate ! 

But  the  name  of  the  future  is  Love! 

Even  now  through  our  darkling  woes 
The  bride-blush  of  the  Peoples  glows; 

’Mid  our  sombre  branches  takes  wing 
— Like  a hornet,  glad  dawn  awakes  — 
Progress,  the  bee;  and  the  brakes 
Yield  honey  for  them  that  shall  sing. 

Oh,  behold!  the  deep  night  is  drunk  up. 

O’er  the  world  which  hath  shattered  the  cup 
Empoisoned,  of  Caesars,  of  kings, — 

O’er  rapt,  proud  nations  made  bright 
For  marriage,  in  azure  light 

Peace  spreads  her  vast,  steadfast  wings. 

0 free  France,  arisen  at  last! 

0 robe  unstained  with  the  past! 

0 glad  for  the  sorrowful  hours ! 

A sound  as  of  loved  labour  stirs, 

The  sweet  heaven  smiles,  and  one  hears 
New  song-notes  from  hawthorn  bowers! 

Bust  gnaws  the  stern  arms  of  old  war. 

Of  your  cannons  with  thunderous  roar. 

Great  captains,  scarce  so  much  remains 
As  might  serve  a cup  to  fill 
For  a bird  with  bright  eager  bill 

With  the  sparkling  feast  of  clear  rains. 

Revenges  bear  here  no  part; 

Every  true  heart-thought,  every  heart, 

That  the  same  beat  hath,  the  same  word, 


674 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Make  one  only  consummate  sheaf  — 

God  takes  to  bind  this  with  a wreath 
Of  the  disused  tocsin  the  cord. 

In  the  depth  of  the  heavens  a star 
Behold,  it  gains  glory  afar. 

Comes  nearer, — bright  station  hath  won ! 
0 Republic,  great  mother  of  all, 

Though  now  but  a spark  so  small. 

Soon,  soon,  thou’lt  out-dazzle  the  sun! 


0 exiles!  True  men  whom  fate  tries, 

My  comrades  so  valiant  and  true, 

Ofttimes,  near  the  fountains  that  rise, 

I have  chanted  this  song  unto  you. 

Ofttimes,  having  hearkened  my  song, 

You  have  said  to  me : “ Take  thy  hope  hence ! 
We  are  they  that  endure  the  world-wrong; 
More  black  than  the  thunder  cloud  dense. 

“ What  may  it  teach  us,  this  night  ? 

That  the  just  bears  the  chastisement ! — 
That  virtue  is  roused,  and  her  sight 
On  the  God  of  yon  heaven  is  bent. 

“ God  hides,  and  the  darkness  is  here, 

Alas ! and  foul  crime  is  enthroned ; 

She,  seeing  whom  heaven  holds  dear. 

Whom  smites,  hath  loud  pseans  entoned. 

“ To  us  all  unknown  are  His  ways. 

How  may  this  God  of  the  nations 
Gather  such  manifold  praise 

From  such  manifold  desolations ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


675 


“His  workings  seem  not  at  one 

With  the  hope  that  once  shone  in  His 
eyes.  . . 

But  who  then,  my  brothers,  hath  won 
The  secret  of  Him  in  the  skies? 

Who  then  hath  traversed  wide  space, 

The  water,  the  air,  fire,  the  sod, 

And  the  region  where  spirits  embrace  ? 

Who  can  say : “ I have  seen  High  God ! 

“ I have  seen  J ehovah ! His  name 

I know;  He  hath  filled  me  with  fires! 

I know  how  He  fashioned  man’s  frame. 

And  all  breathing  things  He  inspires. 

“ I have  seen  that  vast  Hand  unknown 
Which  opens  and  leaves  winter  free. 

With  the  thunders  deep  in  the  cloud  zone, 

And  the  tempest  upon  the  loud  sea, 

“ Stretch  and  bow  the  vast,  livid  night ; 

Wake  to  life  an  immortal  soul; 

Support  in  the  Void  the  fixed  might 
Of  the  star-burthened  uttermost  pole; 

“ Lead  silent  the  fateful  hour ; 

To  the  feast  of  the  rose  crowned  king 
The  black  guest,  Death,  without  flower, 

Without  song,  without  welcome,  bring; 

“ Weave  deftly  the  spider’s  net, 

Eipen  the  fruit,  paint  the  flower. 

Lead  the  hosts  of  the  star  worlds,  and  yet 
Lose  not  one,  at  the  twilight  hour; 


676  THE  POEMS  OP  VICTOR  HUGO 

“ Stay  the  brimmed  wave  at  the  shore ; 

With  roses  make  June  beautiful; 

Time,  living  water,  outpour 
From  eternity’s  urns  ever  full; 

“ By  a breath,  with  its  every  star. 

Make  in  its  mightiness 
Shiver  vast  heaven  afar. 

As  a shepherd’s  tent  with  wind  stress; 

“ Link  light  to  bright  light  in  the  skies 
With  countless  invisible  chains.  . . . 

All  things  I have  seen  with  mine  eyes. 
Unknown  to  me  nothing  remains ! ” 

Who  can  say  that?  Not  one. 

In  our  soul  night,  night  in  our  eyes ! 

A vain  breath  is  man,  soon  done  — 

God  communes  alone  in  His  skies. 

0 doubt  not!  Have  faith!  Not  yet  is  the  close. 

Let  us  wait.  Of  kings,  as  of  panthers,  God  knows 
How  to  shatter  the  wild  beast  fang. 

He  but  proves  us,  my  friends!  Have  faith,  be  ye 
calm. 

And  press  forward ! 0 desert,  cool  spreads  your  green 
palm. 

Though  ’tis  smit  with  the  dire  noon  pang ! 

Because  He  doth  not  his  whole  work  in  an  hour, — 
To  the  jesuit  gives  Jesus,  gives  Borne  to  the  power 
Of  the  priest,  the  good  to  the  ill, 

We  should  therefore  despair?  Of  Him,  the  Vast 
Just! 

No,  no, ! He  alone  hath  the  harvest  in  trust 
Who  alone  hath  the  seed-time  at  will. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


677 


Oh,  is  not  He  steadfast  ? Oh,  is  not  He  sure  ? 

This  world,  whereon  ever  our  blind  souls  pore. 
Doth  He  fill  not  from  depth  to  height? 

What  we  call  wisdom  is  vanity; 

Before  His  face  all  the  shadows  shall  flee, — 

His  countenance  veiled  with  light. 

Doth  He  see  not  huge  snakes  on  their  bellies  creep  ? 
Scans  He  not  even  to  their  deepest  deep 
The  caves  of  the  highest  height?  * 

Doth  He  know  not  the  hour  when  the  crane  lifts 
wing; 

And,  0 tiger,  thy  crouching, — 0 tiger,  thy  spring, — 
And,  0 lion,  thy  lair  in  the  night  ? 

Answer,  0 swallow, — gold  eagle,  with  song 
In  the  rush  of  thy  wings,  by  His  breath  borne  along 
Are  ye  not  ? Stag,  art  fleet  Him  to  flee  ? 

Shy  fox,  see  you  not  His  bright  eyes  in  the  brake  ? 
Lean  wolf,  when  you  feel  in  the  dark  a bush  shake. 
Do  you  tremble  not,  saying  — “ ’Tis  He ! ” 

Since  He  knoweth  all  this;  since  o’er  all  He  hath 
power ; 

Since  effect  from  each  cause,  as  the  fruit  from  the 
flower. 

His  fingers  resistless  aye  draw; 

Since  the  worm  He  hath  set  in  the  bark  of  the  tree. 
Since  He  makes  in  the  night  wind  proud  columns 
to  be 

As  feeble  as  wisps  of  dry  straw; 

Since  He  smites  ocean  vast  like  a bellowing  beast; 
Since  He  is  the  seer,  while  man  ne’er  hath  ceased 
To  grope  in  the  darkness,  stone  blind; 


678 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Since  His  arm  is  earth’s  pillar,  and  since  in  fire- 
flight 

The  fierce  comet  far  flickers,  as  even  in  midnight 
A torch  blown  upon  by  the  wind; 

Since  the  wan  night  has  knowledge, — ay,  since  the 
dense  shade 

Beholds  blooming  beauteous  the  star  He  hath  made, — 
Shall  we  alone  doubt,  that  He  sees? 

We,  steadfast  and  pure,  in  our  agony  proud. 
Stiff-backed  alway  to  the  foul  tyrant-crowd. 

And  only  for  Him  on  our  knees! 

More  nobly  let’s  think.  Full  bitter  our  days; 

But  when  our  weak  hands  through  the  dark  we  up- 
raise. 

Feel  we  not  a Hand,  succouring,  strong  ? 

Since  we  walked,  bowed  down  in  this  martyr  shade. 
Have  we  heard  not  oft  One  behind  us  Who  said : 

“ Go  forward,  the  night  is  not  long.” 

0 exiles,  the  future’s  the  People’s ! Peace,  light, 
And  liberty,  throned  as  on  chariots  fire-bright 

Will  flash  through  the  path  of  the  skies: 

This  crime  triumphant  is  smoke,  and  but  seems; 

1 swear  it  to  you, — I,  the  dreamer  who  dreams 
’Neath  God’s  heaven  with  lifted  eyes. 

Than  the  proud  sea-waves  they  are  prouder,  these 
kings; 

But  lo,  God  saith ! “ In  their  nostrils  my  rings 
I will  put,  and  my  bit  ’twixt  loud  lips; 

I will  chariot  them,  in  tameness  or  strife, — 

Them  and  their  harlots,  their  players  o’  the  fife, — 

In  the  shadow,  my  death  — eclipse ! ” 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


679 


God  speaks:  and  the  rock  where  they  planted  their 
throne 

Crumbles ; and  lo ! as  a breath  they  are  strewn 
With  less  sound  than  leaves  torn  from  the  trees. 

0 wind,  wild  wind!  that  art  rattling  our  doors, 

Say,  is  it  thou  that  dost  bear  them  — all  yours 
Is  the  sorry  burthen  of  these? 


0 Exiles,  so  fair  is  earth’s  destiny ! 

The  waves  of  night  borne  backward  shall  be 
By  the  billows  resistless  of  day ; 

No  foam  shall  remain  of  them,  never  again 
Shall  storm  with  their  bitterness  earth’s  shore  stain  — 
Ebbed  are  they  forever  and  aye ! 

Not  only  o’er  France  shall  the  Glory  star  shine, 

But  on  all  the  nations ; not  one  shall  repine 
In  the  fetters  of  slavery. 

Released  for  aye  from  his  darkling  doom. 

Driven  out  erst  by  night,  to  his  home  shall  come, 
’Neath  the  dawn  star,  Humanity. 

Like  meteors  fire  fed  with  the  breath  of  night, 

All  tyrants  shall  perish  at  birth  of  light, 

And  lo ! in  their  stead,  fair-fixt 
In  heaven  which  cloudless  o’er  earth  shall  brood. 

Two  suns  shall  we  see  — man’s  brotherhood, 

And  the  brotherhood  of  Christ ! 

Yes,  to  all  I repeat  it,  to  all  I declare, 

— 0 clarion  of  song  bear  this  truth  through  the 
air!  — 

All  strife  upon  earth  shall  cease. 


680 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


For  war  is  a scourge  only  brandished  of  Kings ; 

.And  Kings  are  no  more;  while  Freedom  spreads 
wings, 

And  one  is  called  Love,  one  Peace. 

CPer  all  earth  to  the  uttermost  isle  of  the  sea, 

Lo ! the  sacred  boughs  of  life’s  loveliest  tree. 
Progress,  outspread  to  the  light ! 

Boon  heaven  fosters  its  branches  alway, 

Fulfilled  with  the  shining  of  doves  all  day. 

With  the  burning  of  stars  all  night. 

And  we  shall  be  dead  — dead,  haply,  as  now ! 

But,  0 brothers,  0 martyrs,  then  shall  we  not  know 
The  sun  sees  on  earth  no  slave ! 

While  Life’s  Tree  towers  above  us  with  flower  and 
fruit. 

Shall  we  wake  not  to  set  one  faint  kiss  on  its  root 
That  draws  life  from  us  even  in  the  grave ! 


TO  THE  CANNON  “ VICTOR  HUGO” 

[Bought  with  the  proceeds  of  Readings  of  “ Les  Ch&ti- 
ments  ” during  the  Siege  of  Paris.] 

Thou  deadly  crater,  moulded  by  my  muse, 

Cast  thou  thy  bronze  into  my  bowed  and  wounded 
heart, 

And  let  my  soul  its  vengeance  to  thy  bronze  impart ! 


LES  CHANSONS  DES  ETTES  ET  DES  BOIS 
1865 


LES  CHANSONS  DES  RUES 
ET  DES  BOIS 

THE  HOESE 

Je  V avals  saisi  par  la  bride 

I was  holding  him  fast  by  the  bridle, 

In  knots  stood  each  muscle  and  vein, 

My  brow  was  all  lined  with  my  efforts 
His  headlong  career  to  restrain. 

A horse  of  a glorious  lineage, 

Astarte-like  born  of  the  foam, 

Daily  fed  from  Aurora’s  bright  chalice, 

Brought  straight  from  her  own  starry  home. 

A steed  mighty  and  grand  in  his  movements. 
Untamable,  bounding  on  high. 

Ever  filling,  with  resonant  neighings, 

The  vault  of  the  deep  azure  sky. 

To  heaven  each  genius  his  bowl  lifts. 

And  kindling  his  torch  from  the  sky, 

On  the  back  of  this  wonderful  monster 
Is  seated  and  borne  up  on  high. 

All  thy  poets  and  prophets  in  order 
Thou  knowest,  0 earth,  by  the  scars 
Of  the  burnings  received  from  his  harness 
Which  shineth  all  over  with  stars. 


684 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOP  HUGO 


He  inspireth  each  ode  and  each  epic, 

Conceiving  roost  terrible  things, 

As  the  sword  flashes  out  from  its  scabbard, 

And  crimes  from  the  bosom  of  kings. 

As  creator,  and  source  of  each  fountain, 

He  makes  the  rock  open  and  speak. 

With  its  Eephidim  for  the  old  Hebrew, 

And  Hippocrene  for  the  wise  Greek. 

Through  the  pale  Revelation  he  hurries 
With  Death  and  Despair  on  his  back'. 

And  the  shade  of  his  great  gloomy  pinion 
Turns  the  moon  over  Tenedos  black. 

Amos’  wail  and  the  wrath  of  Achilles, 

His  nostrils  inflate  as  is  meet. 

And  the  rhythm  of  iEschylus’  verses, 

’Tis  the  march  of  his  galloping  feet. 

Lo ! he  bends  down  the  tree  o’er  the  dead  fruit. 
As  a mother  does,  weeping  alone; 

He  hews  out  of  marble  a Rachel, 

Or  a Niobe  fashions  in  stone. 

When  he  starts,  the  ideal  is  his  goal, 

Mane  streaming  and  course  ever  fleet; 

In  front  the  Impossible  yawning 
Alone  checks  the  rush  of  his  feet. 

Swifter  far  than  the  lightning  he  rushes. 

On  Pindus  he  seats  himself  strong, 

The  Bear  he  relieves  of  his  burden. 

As  he  draws  the  gold  chariot  along. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


685 


He  sports  in  the  heavens  undaunted, 

And  plunges  due  north  to  the  Pole; 

Him  the  Zodiac,  in  circle  revolving, 

Nigh  crushes  in  ponderous  roll. 

God  created  the  gulf  for  his  pleasure, 

And  gave  the  wild  skies  to  his  will, 

His  flight  in  the  gloom  and  the  shadow, 

His  path  through  the  lightning-cleft  hill. 

Through  the  dense  mists  of  heaven  he  wanders. 
And  loves,  as  he  moves  on  his  way. 

To  fly  till  the  thick  murky  darkness 
Shrinks  back  from  the  presence  of  day. 

And  the  fierce  glaring  look  of  his  eyeballs. 
Brought  back  from  his  mystic  career, 

He  fixes  on  man,  that  bare  atom. 

And  fills  him  with  terror  and  fear. 

He’s  not  docile,  but  hard  to  be  guided. 

As  many  a poet  will  find, 

Who  may  use  him  to  leap  o’er  a chasm 
Which  cannot  be  bridged  by  the  mind. 

And  the  grooms  who  attend  in  his  stable. 

Are  men  of  both  talent  and  soul ; 

The  first  place  is  given  to  Orpheus, 

With  Chenier  last  on  the  roll. 

All  our  soul  and  spirit  he  governs; 

Ezekiel  waits  him  with  awe, 

And  it  is  from  the  floor  of  his  stable 
That  patient  Job  gathers  his  straw. 


686 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Nought  but  woe  to  the  man  he  surprises, 

111  fortune  attends  all  his  play; 

He  resembles  the  last  days  of  Autumn, 

When  weariness  reigneth  alway. 

From  his  back  he’s  flung  many  a rider, 

He  loathes  both  the  bit  and  the  rein. 

He  delights  to  be  held  as  a monster, 

Nor  thinks  of  his  rider  again. 

He  exhibits  nor  mercy  nor  patience. 

But  leaves  far  behind  on  his  track 

All  the  rash  and  adventurous  spirits 
Who  mounted  in  vain  on  his  back. 

His  flanks  with  their  myriads  of  sparklets, 
Bear  him  on  in  his  pride  and  his  might; 

Though  Despreaux  or  daring  Quintilian 
Have  ventured  to  curb  him  in  flight. 

But  I dragged  him  from  rapt  contemplation 
Of  gods,  and  of  crimes,  and  of  kings. 

The  sad  horse  of  the  gulf  and  the  darkness. 
To  fields  where  the  soft  Idyll  springs. 

Then  I drew  him  towards  the  sweet  meadow, 
Where  the  sunrise  had  just  given  birth 

To  an  eclogue  of  loving  and  kissing, 

And  turned  to  an  Eden  this  earth. 

In  a valley,  not  far  from  the  meadow, 
Where  'Plautus  and  Bacan  compose, 

I'he  epigram  blooms  like  a hawthorn. 

And  that  trefoil,  the  triolet,  grows. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


687 


Abbe  Chaulieu  can  there  take  his  sermon/ 

And  Segrais  can  gather  fresh  bays. 

From  the  tender  green  grass  ’neath  the  bushes. 
To  inspire  him  with  musical  lays. 

The  horse  struggled,  his  eyeballs  shot  lightnings 
Like  sheen  of  a yataghan’s  blade, 

His  flanks  heaved  like  the  breath  of  the  tempest, 
When  wind  against  tide  is  arrayed. 

For  he  longed  to  return  to  the  unknown, 

To  break  from  this  earth  and  its  ties. 

With  the  sulphurous  reek  in  his  nostrils. 

And  the  soul  of  the  world  in  his  eyes. 

Loud  he  neighed  as  if  looking  for  rescue 
From  all  the  invisible  worlds; 

And  from  heaven,  as  though  in  swift  answer. 

The  thunderbolt  crashing  was  hurled. 

And  the  raving  Bacchantes  all  joined 
In  the  yell  that  went  up  to  the  skies. 

Whilst  a long  line  of  solemn-faced  Sphinxes 
Stood  gazing  with  calm  steady  eyes. 

And  the  stars  that  in  heaven’s  vault  shimmer, 

All  quivered  on  hearing  his  cry. 

As  a lamp  in  a woman’s  weak  fingers, 

When  the  evening  breezes  are  high. 

And  each  time  that  with  wings  black  and  gloomy, 
He  beat  on  the  dull  cloudy  sky. 

All  the  clusters  of  stars  in  the  shadow 
Away  to  the  infinite  fly. 


688 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


But  my  firm  grasp  I never  relinquished, 

And  showed  him  the  meadow  of  Dreams, 
Where  all  Nature  is  gay  and  seductive. 

And  the  firefly  in  cool  grottoes  gleams. 

And  I showed  him  the  field,  and  the  shadow, 
The  grassplots  made  verdant  by  June, 

The  place  that  bards  think  of  as  Eden, 

In  whose  praises  their  harps  they  attune. 

“ Tell  me,  what  are  you  doing?  ” said  Virgil, 
Who  by  the  spot  happened  to  pass, 

And  I answered,  “ It’s  Pegasus,  Master, 

Fm  taking  to  turn  out  to  grass.” 


ORDER  OF  DAY  FOB  FLOR^AL 

I.  . 

Victoire,  amis!  je  depeche 

Victory,  friends!  I give  wing 

In  haste,  in  the  full  breathed  morn, 
To  strophes  that  gleefully  sing 
The  night  by  the  light  overborne. 

I blow  a blast  on  the  hills, 

A blast  of  rapturous  might: 

Know  all,  that  the  fair  spring  fills 
With  lilies  the  footprints  of  night. 

Jane  slippers  her  soft  white  feet. 

Her  feet  that  no  longer  are  frail. 

Lo,  how  the  sun’s  pulses  beat, 
Fulfilling  yon  heaven’s  blue  vale ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


689 


The  plumed  birds  sing,  lambs  bleat; 

May,  mocking  with  cries  night  powers. 
Puts  winter  in  full  retreat 
With  a mitrailleuse  of  flowers. 

LOVE  OF  THE  WOODLAND 

Orphee,  au  hois  du  Gaystre 

Orpheus,  in  Cayster’s  tangled 

Woodways,  ’neath  the  stars’  pale  light. 
Heard  the  laughter  weird  and  jangled 
Of  the  viewless  ones  of  night. 

Phtas,  the  Theban  sibyl,  dreaming 
Nigh  the  hushed  Phygalian  heights. 
Saw  on  far  horizon  streaming 
Ebon  forms  ’mong  silvery  lights. 

HSschylus,  soft  hazes  threading 
Of  sweet  Sicily,  soul-subdued 
Wandered  beneath  moonbeams  shedding 
Mellow  flute-notes  through  the  wood. 

Pliny,  lo ! — high  thoughts  denying 
For  Miletus’  nymphs  most  fair, — 

Dainty  rosy  limbs  espying, 

Begs  a boon  of  the  amorous  air. 

Plautus,  nigh  Viterbo,  straying 

Through  the  orchard  bowers  sun-bright, 
In  each  palm  gold  fruit  is  weighing 
Such  as  gods  rejoiced  to  bite. 


690  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

Ah,  Versailles!  Haunt  most  delightful! 
Faunus  there,  one  foot  i’  the  wave. 

While  Boileau  waxed  shrill  and  spiteful. 
Golden  rhymes  to  Moliere  gave. 

Dante,  sombre  souled,  abiding 
Scathless  in  the  deepest  hell. 

Turned  to  watch  fair  women  gliding 
Thro’  the  boughs  ’neath  eve’s  calm  spell. 

Chenier,  under  willows  sleeping, 

Saw  in  dream  a vision  sweet : 

Lovely  lasses  laughing,  weeping, 

For  whom  Virgil’s  heart  quick  beat 

Shakespeare,  watching  ’neath  the  lazy 
Branches  of  the  forest  lord, 

Heard,  while  blusht  each  meadow  daisy. 
Fairy  trippings,  o’er  green  sward. 

O deep  woodlands,  soul  entrancing, 

Haunted  yet  by  Gods  are  ye! 

Yet  the  goat-foot  Satyr’s  dancing 
To  Pan’s  rustic  melody! 


SUMMER  MORNING 

Aux  champs,  la  nuit  est  venerable 

Solemn  is  midnight  on  the  hills; 

Day  smiles  with  an  ingenuous  air; 
The  ash,  the  maple  evening  stills 
To  slumber.  Eventide  is  fair; 

But  morning  — morning  is  the  time 
For  rapture ! In  what  glory  of  mist 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


691 


Night  melts!  It  makes  the  churl  sublime; 
It  dazzles  the  diplomatist. 

Slowly  the  stars  in  heaven  fade, 

Gold  blossoms  in  the  azure  wold. 

Below,  the  cornflowers  gleam  through  shade 
Blue  stars  upon  a field  of  gold. 

The  small  birds  run,  the  oxen  low ; 

The  leaves  are  charmed  by  sorcery ; 

The  winds  in  wider  circles  blow 
Amid  the  mounting  brilliancy. 

Airs  shiver;  waves  more  loudly  roar; 

Their  inner  thought  all  hearts  confess; 

And  the  whole  universe  once  more 
Awakes  to  life  and  consciousness. 


NOT  A WHIT  NOW  DO  I CAKE 
Je  ne  mets  pas  en  peine 

Not  a whit  now  do  I care 

For  the  belfry  or  the  steeple; 

If  the  queen  be  dark  or  fair. 

King  rule  well  or  ill  his  people; 

None  more  ignorant,  I own. 

If  the  lord  be  proud  or  meek. 

If  the  parish  parson  drone 
Doggrel  Latin  or  good  Greek; 

If't  be  time  for  dance  or  weeping, 
Nests  be  empty  or  brimmed  above; 

Other  cares  keep  me  from  sleeping  — 

I am  head  o'er  heels  in  love. 


692 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Listen,  Jane,  my  troublous  dream! 

’Tis  thy  tiny  foot  so  white 
Tripping  o’er  the  happy  stream 
Light  as  bird  in  hovering  flight. 

Listen,  Jane,  my  dreadful  pain! 

’Tis  that  thus  through  sun  and  shower 
An  unseen,  resistless  chain 

Draws  me  aye  to  thy  bright  bower. 

Listen,  Jane,  my  source  of  sorrow! 

’Tis  that  thy  rare  smiles  alway. 
Beaming  brightlier  from  to-morrow. 

Lure  me  from  the  bright  to-day. 

Listen,  J ane,  my  source  of  pleasure ! 

Thy  skirt’s  smallest  flower  I prize, 

A far  richer,  sweeter  treasure 

Than  all  stars  that  deck  the  skies. 


JANE  SINGING 

Jeanne  chante ; elle  se  penche 

Jane  is  singing;  soaring,  stooping,  as  a bird  from 
tree  to  tree. 

So  from  stave  to  stave  she  passes,  and  the  music 
pleases  me. 

What  was  that  she  sang  of  to  me?  With  her  flower 
on  her  breast 

And  the  morning  in  her  eyes,  what  was  it  that  her 
song  expressed? 


THE  POEMS  OE  VICTOR  HUGO 


693 


Was  she  warbling  of  the  standard,  tented  field  and 
war’s  renown? 

Or  of  how  much  silk  it  takes  to  trim  a hat  to  match 
her  gown? 

Did  she  set  herself  to  do  it  — to  awake  the  hidden 
flame 

Lit  by  Heaven  among  the  pulses  of  this  trembling 
human  frame  ? 

Nay,  I know  not.  Was  it  psalm  or  ballad?  I am 
listening  still. 

Me  the  quiristers  of  daybreak  cause  to  feel  the  self- 
same thrill. 

I was  feasting,  I was  longing  with  an  eagerness  un- 
told; 

I was  fain  to  crown  my  forehead  with  a diadem  of 
gold; 

Fain  to  gaze  upon  her  beauties,  to  annex  her  days  to 
mine; 

Fain  to  pluck  the  stars  from  heaven  — aid  me,  0 you 
powers  divine! 

I was  drunken  with  her  charm ; of  such  love-sickness 
men  have  died; 

Oh  I felt  my  soul  was  ready  to  unfold  and  blossom 
wide! 

For  that  wits  should  be  distracted  and  fly  off  in 
dreams  of  bliss 

Needed  but  the  touch  of  feather  of  a bird  so  sweet 
as  this. 


694 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


THIS  LOVELY  SPOT 
Ces  lieux  sont  purs;  tu  les  completes 

This  lovely  spot  you  make  complete. 

This  wood  that  so  secluded  seems, 

Seems  to  have  made  its  violets  sweet 
With  your  eyes*  innocent  tears  and  beams. 

Dawn  hath  your  rosy  flush  of  youth; 

0 Jane,  you  prove  the  happy  part, 

That  in  all  nature’s  beauty  and  truth 
Hath  all  year  long  a truthful  heart. 

Now  all  its  gifts  this  vale  hath  spread 
For  only  you,  in  humble  wise; 

There  is  a halo  round  your  head 
Converts  each  path  to  Paradise. 

While  every  timid  woodland  thing 

With  wondering  gaze  draws  nigh  to  you. 

Knowing  that  if  you  smile  or  sing 
*Tis  angel-sweet  and  angel-true. 

0 Jane,  you  are  so  sweet,  so  dear, 

That  when  you  rove  these  wood-ways  blest. 

Betwixt  green  tremulous  leaflets  peer 
Small  downy  heads  from  mossy  nest! 

FALLING  STARS 
Les  deux  amants,  sous  la  nue 

Lovers  twain  beneath  the  night, 

Dream  a young  and  happy  pair; 

Through  the  sky-space  infinite, 

Suns  are  seeded  everywhere. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


695 


Athwart  th’  heav’n’s  loud-sounding  dome. 
While  from  night’s  extremest  way 

Showers  of  sparkling  dawn-dust  roam 
Stars  that  pass  and  fade  away. 

Heaps  of  falling  stars  are  shed 

Through  the  vast  dark  zenith  high; 

Kindled  ash,  which  censers  spread. 

Incense  of  infinity. 

And  beneath,  which  dews  bedew. 

Showing  pinks  and  violets  shy; 

Yellow  primrose,  pansy  blue, 

Lilies,  glory  of  July. 

By  the  cool  mist,  nearly  drowned, 

Lies  the  meadow  far  away, 

Girded  by  the  forest  round. 

Shivering,  so  that  one  would  say, 

That  the  earth,  ’neath  veil  of  showers 
Which  the  tear-wet  forest  sheds, 

Wide  its  apron,  decked  with  flowers, 
sTo  receive  the  stars  outspreads. 


THE  MARLY  OAK 

Ne  me  plains  pas , me  dit  Varbre 

This  was  what  the  old  tree  said : 

“ No,  you  need  not  pity  me. 

True,  palace,  monarch  and  all  were  made 
Of  marble  about  me  formerly; 

I looked  out  on  the  Grand  Promenade, 
And  the  Twelve  Caesars  in  a row, 


696 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


And  the  stone  car  on  the  fagade 
With  its  rearing  horses,  long  ago. 

Under  the  twilight  of  the  trees 

Shading  their  majesties’  private  lawn 
I saw  the  statues,  Hercules, 

Hebe  and  Psyche,  Nymph  and  Faun. 

I heard  the  huntsmen  wind  their  quarry; 

The  Queen  I saw  taking  the  air; 

An  oak-tree  and  high  dignitary, 

I had  the  entries  everywhere. 

An  iron  railing,  a thing  of  taste. 

Fenced  me  off  from  the  common  grass; 

The  soil  is  apt  to  be  defaced, 

When  trespassed  on  by  the  ox  and  ass. 

Pasture  was  vulgar,  then,  to  me; 

Agriculture  I fancied  low. 

( Every  self-respecting  tree 

Keeps  apart  from  the  fields,  you  know/ 

So  propriety  would  say 
Under  my  branches,  in  set  form. 

Far  was  I from  the  beaten  way 

Where  the  uncultured  people  swarm. 

’Twas  fashion  made  me  remain  apart; 

For  it  is  the  A B C of  it. 

To  shut  nature  — yes,  and  art. 

Up  in  a close,  and  turn  the  key  of  it. 

“ Hearts  have  I witnessed  — that  were  rovers 
Warriors  — like  turtle-doves ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


697 


Women  called  beauties  — by  their  lovers ; 

Lovers  called  heroes  — by  their  loves. 

Watching  them  pass  me,  great  and  little, 

Male  and  female,  my  temper  rose; 

And  my  branches  are  much  more  brittle 
Than  you  might  easily  suppose. 

Beauties,  praised  in  a general  way. 

Met  with  occasional  criticism. 

Heroes,  of  no  common  clay, 

Clapt  a clog  on  their  heroism. 

Wars  being  deadly,  it  was  clever 
Of  a courageous  king  to  find 
Some  Boileau  solicitous  ever 

To  pull  him  backwards  from  behind. 

Reasons  of  state  are  serious  things; 

Now  and  then  it  was  the  way  with  them 
To  fasten  cart-ropes  round  their  kings, 

For  fear  their  courage  should  go  astray  with 
them. 


“ I have  seen  gnashing  his  teeth  and  prowling. 
Out  of  the  way  of  the  rude  equerries, 

A thing  called  a court-poet,  howling 
In  couplets  to  the  elderberries. 

At  Marly  they  were  in  fashion; 

Wildly  they  wandered  here  and  there, 
Their  fists  clenched,  their  eyes  all  passion, 
Made  up  of  fiction  — and  of  hair. 


698 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


They  put  on  airs  almost  judicial, 
And  turned  out  verses  very  tame; 
And  their  phrases  were  artificial. 
And  their  head  of  hair  the  same. 


“ Even  when  the  enemy  won. 

Eyes  remained  in  a dazzled  state; 

The  great  King  Louis  was  still  the  Sun; 
God  was  another  Louis  the  Great. 

Bossuet’s  tone  was  very  flat; 

Baeine  must  be  rounding  a period; 
Corneille  only,  beneath  his  hat, 

Darted  a glance  aside  at  God. 

That  is  the  way  mankind  are  bred; 

They  find  the  world  supremely  good. 
If  they  but  have  above  their  head 
A heaven  of  carved  and  gilded  wood. 


“ Through  the  park  no  foot  could  pass ; 

No  living  thing  could  trespass  on  it; 
You  might  number  the  blades  of  grass 
As  you  count  the  words  in  a sonnet. 

Farewell  jigs  and  blackberries! 

How  much  smaller  everything  gets! 

Le  Notre  planting  quincunxes  — 

Lulli  composing  his  minuets ! 

Square-clipped  yews,  ungracefully  shaped, 
Seemed  tricked  out  in  cassock  and  band 
The  flowers  humbly  bowed  and  scraped; 
The  trees  did  reverence,  hat  in  hand. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


699 


Out  of  respect  to  the  Sun-king 

At  Kheims  commended  to  God\s  mercies. 
The  branches  of  the  oak,  poor  thing, 

Were  trimmed  like  Alexandrine  verses. 


“ All  that  period  made  me  fret. 

What  with  spite  and  ostentation. 
Dwarfish  seemed  more  dwarfish  yet 
In  its  exalted  situation. 

After  an  age  of  periwigs 

An  age  of  hair-powder  succeeds; 

The  flour  goes  flying  in  whirligigs 
Over  a people  no  man  feeds. 

Art  wears  powder,  a la  mode ; 

Voltaire,  loyal  at  most  in  word, 

Tenders  to  Louis  Quinze  an  Ode 
Cockscombed  after  the  Eoyal  Bird. 

Opinion  is  suppressed  with  gags; 

Majesty  plays  the  fool,  and  dotes; 
Overhead  a ceiling  sags, 

A royalty  of  three  petticoats. 

A trap-door  opens,  one  fine  day ; 

The  ground  being  hollow  under  the  traps, 
Quick  as  a footpad  runs  away 

The  whole  gay  world  is  in  collapse. 

All  these  kings,  the  revel,  the  rout, 

In  the  time  that  a swarm  of  flies 
Buzzes  past  me,  are  wiped  out. 

Everything  around  me  dies. 


700  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

“As  for  me,  it  moves  me  not. 

I take  shelter  behind  God’s  wings; 
The  court  is  gone,  but  I keep  the  grot 
I have  wolves,  where  I had  kings. 

I am  become  true  oak  again ; 

I broaden  in  the  warm  noon-tides. 
Eighty-nine  rubs  off  its  chain 

Against  the  roughness  of  my  sides. 

Freedom  and  I are  reconciled; 

I have  said  good-bye  to  shame; 

I prefer  the  plants  run  wild 
To  humanity  grown  tame. 

I have  foregone  the  Nuncio, 

And  all  the  world  of  dignities 
And  of  fashion;  but  I grow 
Upward,  onward,  into  the  skies. 

Orgulous,  effete,  irate. 

These  fine  folks  may  jeer  at  me. 

I am  content  to  derogate 

In  the  stars’  good  company.” 


TO  EOSITA 

Tu  ne  veux  pas  aimer,  mechante? 

So,  you  won’t  love,  you  naughty  thing,. 
And  all  the  spring  is  dismal  made; 
Hear  you  not  how  the  bird  doth  sing 
In  the  deep  forest’s  pleasant  shade  ? 

If  love  be  missing,  Eden  dies ; 

For  beauty  springs  from  love  alone, 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


701 


Blue  when  the  sun  doth  shine,  the  skies 
Are  blackened  o’er  if  he  be  gone. 

Faded  and  lost  your  charms  will  prove, 
If  you  such  foolishness  prolong: 

The  bird  sings  that  we  ought  to  love. 
And  he  can  sing  no  other  song. 


BY  SILENCE  SHE  THE  BATTLE  WON 

Son  silence  fut  mon  vainqueur 

By  silence  she  the  battle  won, 

Thence  did  my  passion  for  her  spring 
My  heart  at  first,  perceived  alone, 

A scarce  felt  fluttering  of  the  wing. 

Together  in  the  wood  we  drove. 

Each  eve,  far  distant  from  the  throng; 

I talked,  and  other  voices  strove. 

Filling  the  forest  with  their  song. 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  mystery. 

Her  dove-like  wondrous  eyes,  which  have 
The  depth  unfathomed  of  the  sky, 

The  dawn,  as  of  the  silent  grave. 

Still  not  a word  did  she  bestow. 

Silent  and  pensive,  on  we  roll  — 

When,  all  at  once,  I felt  the  blow, 

And  a winged  arrow  pierced  my  soul. 

Ah!  what  is  love?  — no  wisdom  tells  — 

The  silent  maid,  who  only  smiles ; 

The  cavern  is,  where  hidden  dwells 
The  little  archer  full  of  wiles. 


702 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


ANGKY  KOSA 

Une  querelle . Pourquoif 

A quarrel  ? Why  this  scolding,  pray  ? 

Good  Heavens!  because  they’re  lovers  still. 
Sweet  words  had  scarcely  died  away 
When  quickly  followed  words  of  ill. 

Each  heart  depends  on  its  own  cord; 

The  sky’s  o’ercast,  the  sunbeams  flee, 

Love’s  like  the  air,  a foolish  word 
Brings  rain,  when  lovers  disagree. 

’Tis  as  when  roving  through  the  glade. 

Whose  leaves  are  gilt  by  sunny  June, 

We  wander  fearless  in  the  shade. 

Knowing  the  sun  will  shine  forth  soon. 

Though  darkness  may  our  steps  o’ershroud. 

And  fierce  and  bitter  blows  the  blast, 

Yet  silver  lining  sheens  each  cloud. 

And  soon  the  storm  is  overpast. 

IN'  THE  ABBEY  KTJINS 

Seuls  tons  deux,  ravis,  chantants! 

Two  together,  laughing,  loving  — how  they  sing! 
Plucking  sweets  of  God’s  own  sowing,  buds  of  spring. 

What  a ripple  of  laughter,  flashing  in  the  shades 
Once  the  home  of  aching  hearts,  of  hooded  maids ! 

’Tis  a couple  newly  wedded,  girl  and  boy, 

Sounding  all  the  many  witching  chords  of  joy; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


703 


Sporting,  child-like,  with  the  zephyrs  of  the  west; 
Sports  to  which  the  convent’s  blackness  adds  a zest. 

They  have  strewn  the  step  with  jasmine  petals,  where 
Anciently  the  abbess  joined  her  hands  in  prayer. 

Gravestones  marked  with  crosses  help  them  in  their 
p!ay; 

Stinging-nettles  get  a little  in  their  way. 

Hide  and  seek  among  the  ruins  — love  as  well; 
Dawn  upon  the  darkness  of  the  cloistered  cell. 

Off  they  hurry ; billing,  cooing ; much  in  love ; 

Kiss,  and  kiss  again;  within  — without  — above. 

In  the  archways,  or  behind  the  buttresses ; 

’Tis  the  story  of  the  birds  among  the  trees. 

FROM  WOMAN  TO  HEAVEN 

L’dme  a des  etapes  profondes 

The  storehouse  of  the  souls  is  vast; 

At  first  we’re  charmed,  and  then  at  last 
Convinced.  Two  worlds,  they  stand  apart: 

The  last  the  mind,  the  first  the  heart. 

To  love,  to  understand.  The  heart 
Stops  at  the  first,  like  birds  that  dart 
Through  lowly  valleys,  but  the  soul 
Flies  upward  to  the  higher  goal. 

The  lover  takes  th’  Archangel’s  place, 

A kiss,  and  then  all  Nature’s  face 


704 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Is  instant  changed  from  gloom  of  night 
To  dazzling  palace  of  delight. 

Let  love  pervade  the  whole  earth  through. 
Even  to  the  sprig  bedecked  with  dew 
That  fallen  lies;  for,  wondrous  thing! 

It  forms  a nest  when  comes  the  Spring. 

Draw  back  the  veil,  and  let  us  see 
That  blessed  nest  on  woodland  tree. 

And  that  nest  will  become  a light 
In  forest  of  the  infinite. 


THE  SOWEE 
Vest  le  moment  crepusculaire 


Sitting  in  a porchway  cool. 

Sunlight,  I see  dying  fast. 

Twilight  hastens  on  to  rule  — ■ 

Working  hours  have  well-nigh  past. 


Shadows  shoot  across  the  lands: 
But  a sower  lingers  still. 

Old,  in  rags,  he  patient  stands, 
Looking  on,  I feel  a thrill. 


Black  and  high  his  silhouette 
Dominates  the  furrows  deep! 
Now  to  sow  the  task  is  set. 

Soon  shall  come  a time  to  reap. 

Marches  he  along  the  plain. 

To  and  fro,  he  scatters  wide 
From  his  hand  the  precious  grain; 
Muse  I,  as  I see  him  stride. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


705 


Darkness  deepens.  Fades  the  light. 

Now  his  gestures  to  mine  eyes 
Are  august;  and  strange  — his  height 
Seems  to  touch  the  starry  skies. 


BABY'S  SLEEP  AT  DAWN 
L’humble  chambre  a Vair  de  sourire 

Faint  smiles  the  humble  little  room, 

On  an  old  chest  some  roses  blush ; 

Beholding  here  dissolve  night's  gloom, 

Priests  had  said.  Peace ! and  women,  Hush ! 

Yonder  what  small  recess  is  seen, 

Whereto  the  tenderest  radiance  creeps? 

0,  more  than  angel  guard  serene! 

Aurora  watches;  baby  sleeps. 

Deep  in  that  nook  a tiny  thing 
Lies  lulled  within  a cradle  white ; 

Amid  the  shadow  quivering 

Heaven  only  knows  with  what  delight. 

Lo,  in  her  dimpled  hand  tight  prest 
She  holds  a toy,  sweet  source  of  mirth ! 

Cherubs  in  heaven  with  palms  are  blest. 

Babies  with  rattles  upon  earth. 

What  sleep  is  hers ! Ah,  who  dare  say 

What  dreams  make  such  smiles  come  and  go ; 

Haply  she  sees  some  bright  dawnway 
With  angels  passing  to  and  fro. 


706 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Her  rosy  arm  moves  momently 
As  if  to  wave  some  sweet  adieu; 
Gentle  her  breathing  as  may  be 
A butterfly’s  amid  the  blue. 

Aurora’s  loth  to  chase  those  dreams : 
Naught’s  so  august,  so  pure,  so  mild. 
As  this  bright  eye  of  God  that  beams 
Upon  the  closed  eyes  of  a child. 


AN  OUT-DOOKS  HUMOURIST 
Au  fond  du  pare  qui  se  delahre 

Deep  in  the  depths  of  an  old  enclosure. 

Wild  and  waste,  but  pretty  enough 

When  the  moon  upon  oak  and  osier 
Shines  like  a candle  long  in  the  snuff. 

There  a sparrow  in  all  his  glory 
Keeps  his  family  magazine. 

Open  wide,  on  an  oak’s  fifth  story 
April  has  just  repainted  green. 

A weeping  willow,  of  mood  lymphatic, 

Leans  on  the  greensward  and  sighs  in  the 
breeze. 

Some  few  paces  off  from  the  attic 
Where  the  rascal  chuckles  at  ease. 

The  willow  branches  droop,  afflicted. 

Over  a pond  of  a rood  or  less, 

Wherein  their  outlines  are  depicted 
Feature  by  feature,  tress  by  tress. 

Jack  the  sparrow,  visiting  Jinny 
In  her  nest  lit  up  by  the  morn. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


707 


Chaffs  the  willow,  treats  as  a ninny 
This  Wordsworthian  all  forlorn. 

He  cries  to  all  the  half-fledged  starlings 
Among  the  leaflets  shaking  a limb, 

“ Look  at  the  pond,  you  little  darlings ; 

The  tree  has  wept  it  full  to  the  brim ! ” 

By  the  pool,  with  a splash  and  splutter, 
Down  he  comes,  and  begins  to  gibe; 

“ You  are  a very  stupid  gutter ; 

Have  you  nothing  new  to  describe? 

Fast  in  a waggon-rut  you  grovel, 

Flat  as  a willow-pattern  plate. 

Change  your  fashion  to  something  novel! 
These  lank  osiers  are  out  of  date. 

“ Your  Georgic  is  dull,  I give  you  warning. 

‘ Only  a mirror/  you  explain  ? 

Besult:  one  willow,  every  morning; 

Every  night  the  same,  again. 

A classic  theme  ? but  a bore,  a bogey ! 

I had  rather  the  theme  was  mute. 
Willow,  indeed!  An  old-fogy; 

A member  of  the  Institute! 

“ I see  the  very  gudgeon  yawning. 

*Tis  dismal,  pond;  you  irritate  me, 

Lying,  with  weeds  dishevelled,  fawning 
Thus  at  the  foot  of  a bald  old  tree. 

Give  me  something  new  for  my  whistle ! 

Do  your  tracing,  but  with  less  pose; 
Suppose  me  ass  — well,  make  a thistle! 
Suppose  me  maiden  — make  me  a rose ! ” 

Then  he  addresses  the  green  linnet; 

“ See,  this  willow,  on  the  green  sod, 


708 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Knows  the  world  but  to  note,  within  it. 
The  devil  perched  by  the  side  of  God. 
But  I prefer,  the  wood  being  spacious. 

To  flit  from  thicket  to  brake,  my  dears, 
Bather  than  pass  my  life,  good  gracious ! 
Filling  a foot-bath  with  my  tears.” 

The  willow  is  silent,  stiff  and  stately, 
Black  as  the  wood  of  the  gallows-tree; 
And  old  dame  Nature  smiles  sedately 
At  every  quip  and  quiddity 
Over  the  rock-work,  the  detritus, 

The  quincunxes,  the  straggling  quicks, 
Hurled  at  this  rustic  Heraclitus 
By  this  Democritus  of  chicks. 


LIBERTY,  EQUALITY,  FRATERNITY 
Depuis  six  mille  ans  la  guerre 

For  centuries  past  this  war  madness 
Has  laid  hold  of  each  combative  race; 

Whilst  our  God  takes  but  heed  of  the  flower, 

And  that  sun,  moon,  and  stars  keep  their  place. 

The  sight  of  the  heavens  above  us, 

The  bird’s  nest  and  lily-like  snow, 

Drive  not  from  the  brain  of  us  mortals 
The  war  thirst,  with  its  feverish  glow. 

We  love  but  the  field  with  its  carnage, 

And  the  strife  which  turns  earth  into  hell. 

And  eager  for  glory,  the  people 

Would  not  change  the  fierce  drum  for  church 
bell. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOPv  HUGO 


709 


The  vain  aspirations  of  glory, 

With  banners  and  cars  of  bright  gold, 

Draw  tears  from  the  widows  and  orphans, 

As  often  has  happened  of  old. 

Our  natures  have  changed  to  brute  fierceness ; 
f “ Forward ! — die ! ” bursts  from  each  angry 
throat. 

Whilst  our  lips  seem  to  mimic  the  music 
Of  the  echoing  war-trumpet’s  note. 

Steel  flashes,  the  bivouacs  are  smoking, 

As  with  pale  brows  we  eagerly  run. 

The  thoughtful  are  driven  to  madness 
By  the  flash  and  the  roar  of  the  gun. 

Our  lives  are  but  spent  for  the  glory 
Of  the  kings  who  smile  over  our  grave. 

And  build  up  a fabric  of  friendship 

With  cement  from  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

While  the  beasts  of  the  field  and  the  vultures 
Come  in  search  of  their  banquet  of  hell. 

And  they  strip  the  red  flesh  from  the  bodies 
That  lie  stiff  and  stark  where  they  fell. 

Each  man’s  hand  is  raised  ’gainst  his  neighbour, 
Whilst  he  strives  all  his  wrath  to  excite. 

And  trades  on  our  natural  weakness 
To  inveigle  us  into  the  fight. 

“ A Bussian,  quick,  cut  down  the  villain, 

Put  your  sword  through  that  murderous  Croat. 

How  dare  they  from  our  men  to  differ, 

Or  venture  to  wear  a white  coat  ? ” 


710  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

“I  slay  fellow-creatures  and  go  on 
My  life’s  path.  What  glory  like  mine? 

Their  crime  is  most  black  and  most  heinous. 

They  live  on  the  right  of  the  Ehine.” 

“ For  Eosbach  and  Waterloo,  vengeance/’ 

The  cry  maddens  the  heart  and  the  brain; 

Men  long  for  the  fierce  glow  of  battle 

And  the  blood  that  is  poured  forth  like  rain. 

In  peace  we  could  drink  from  the  fountains. 

Or  calmly  repose  in  the  shade. 

But  our  brethren  in  battle  to  slaughter 
Is  a pleasure  which  never  will  fade. 

The  lust  for  blood  spilling  incites  us 

To  rush  madly  o’er  valleys  and  plains; 

The  vanquished  are  crying  in  terror. 

And  are  clasping  our  swift  horses’  manes. 

And  yet  I ask  sometimes  in  wonder, 

As  I wander  the  meadows  among. 

Can  brother  for  brother  feel  hatred 
As  he  hears  the  lark’s  musical  song? 

THE  ASCENT  OF  MAN 
Tandis  qu'au  loin  des  nuees 

Cumuli,  fantastic  Edens,  move  along  the  distant 
blue. 

I the  while  attend  your  wisdom.  This  is  what  I 
glean  from  you. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


711 


“ What  ideas  are  yours  of  man  — that  he  can  succour 
God's  desire? 

As  if  man  were  the  dispenser,  say  of  water,  air  or 
fire! 

Is  it  so,  that  in  his  awmry  you  have  seen  him,  with 
your  eyes, 

Stow  the  rolls  of  satin  hangings  wherewith  morning 
drapes  the  skies? 

Is  it  he  can  heave  and  sink  and  say  c No  further 9 
to  the  main? 

Is  it  he  can  make  the  elements  in  arms  obey  his  rein  ? 

Does  he  know  the  grass's  riddle?  Speaks  he  to  the 
quickened  nest? 

Will  he  blend  his  blatant  keynote  with  the  clarion 
of  the  west? 

Does  the  salt  sonorous  ocean  fear  the  spur,  when  he 
is  by? 

Does  he  understand  the  meteor?  Can  he  compre- 
hend the  fly? 

Man  to  succour  God ! This  dreaming,  shifting  phan- 
tom of  a night ! 

Is  it  thanks  to  man's  poor  hyssop  that  the  swan's 
down  keeps  its  white  ? 

Fate  decrees,  man  acquiesces.  Man  can  neither 
make  nor  mar. 

Have  you  seen  his  nippers  clipping  jasmine  petals  to 
a star? 

Banish  God  and  then  imagine  — strive  — discover  — 
thicken  out 


718 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


With  the  mysteries  of  Eleusis  threads  of  Eleatic 
doubt, 

Toil  — be  patient  — search  the  crannies  of  the  mun- 
dane edifice; 

Take  experience  for  pestle,  take  for  mortar  the 
abyss ; 

Weld  and  puddle  — I defy  you,  with  all  science  at 
your  back, 

And  philosophy  to  aid,  to  grow  a grain  of  white 
wheat  black! 

At  the  mystic  hour  of  day-shut,  when  the  pool  be- 
comes a glass. 

When  you  walk  beneath  the  holm-oaks,  and  the 
shadows  o’er  you  pass, 

Ask  yourself,  my  friend,  what  man  is;  sound  his 
depths  of  nothingness; 

Ask  by  how  much  his  deduction  leaves  infinity  the 
less ! 

Men  are  ciphers.  Why  not  view  him  as  he  is,  the 
Adamite, 

In  the  sepulchre  a mummy,  on  the  earth  a parasite? 

When  Jehovah  sets  His  rainbow  in  the  cloud  against 
the  rain. 

When  He  harnesses  the  whirlwind  to  the  gloom- 
fraught  hurricane, 

When  from  age  to  age  He  marshals  rosy  May,  De- 
cember dun, 

When  He  implicates  the  cog-wheels  of  His  planets 
round  the  sun, 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


713 


[When  the  zodiac  signs  go  rolling,  coupled  fast  in  one 
intent. 

Never  crashing  on  the  sleepers  of  the  solid  firma- 
ment. 

When  the  cable-ropes  that  draw  the  stars,  the  seasons 
and  the  weather. 

On  the  windlasses  of  God  come  taut  and  slacken, 
all  together, 

i 

To  combine  their  mazy  wheelwork  in  exactest  syn- 
chrony. 

To  prevent  the  tide  from  mounting  past  the  curb- 
stones on  the  quay. 

To  upset  the  cloud-filled  vessel  when  the  time  is 
come  for  showers. 

For  the  bees  upon  Hymettus  to  unfold  in  June  the 
flowers. 

So  to  order  that  the  comet  with  a world  encounter 
not. 

That  the  planet  should  attain,  on  such  a day,  its 
nodal  spot, 

That  whene’er  the  hour  approaches  of  the  evening’s 
duskier  light 

There  should  gleam  a star  suspended  in  some  angle 
of  the  night, 

That  the  effluences,  the  forces,  of  the  ether,  of  man’s 
heart, 

To  the  universal  movement  alway  should  supply 
their  part, 


714 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


That  the  system  of  creation  should  proceed  with  due 
routine, 

I can  hardly  think  He  studies  a philosopher’s  ma- 
chine ! 99 

Friend,  your  irony  is  bitter,  but  it  glances  all  awry ; 

God  relies  upon  the  emmet;  God  has  dealings  with 
the  fly. 

Nothing  He  has  made  is  idle;  with  one  voice  all 
nature  sings; 

God  is  Maker,  man  inventor;  God  to  man  has  given 
wings. 

In  the  cause  of  truth  and  virtue  man  is  His  aux- 
iliary; 

God  has  taken  man  for  raiment;  man  is  ivy,  God 
the  tree. 

Since  man  serves  Him,  he  can  aid  Him.  God  it  is, 
who  works  in  men. 

In  his  actions  man  is  conscious  of  a cause  beyond 
his  ken. 

Avenues  unnumbered  beckon  to  his  erring,  questing 
tread ; 

Problems  piled  on  problems  rear  their  shadowy  spans 
above  his  head. 

On  the  world,  his  place  of  exile,  taper-like,  he  sheds 
a light. 

Shining  even  to  the  margin  of  the  shoreless  infinite. 

It  dispels  the  mists  of  error;  from  far  off  it  indi- 
cates 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


715 


The  funereal  cliffs  that  border  the  abyss  of  human 
fates. 

It  reveals  the  dim-seen  portals  of  the  grave;  its  ra- 
diancy 

Lightens  up  the  nearmost  arches  of  thy  bridge  — 
Eternity ! 

Underneath  the  awful  vault  it  gleams,  and  fear  is 
put  to  flight; 

There  is  One  who  holds  the  lantern;  but  it  lightens 
thee,  0 night! 

God  on  all  His  creatures  sets  the  mighty  impress  of 
His  will; 

Good  is  what  He  makes  of  matter;  what  through 
man,  is  better  still. 

Terrible  was  Nature  — pitiless  — almost  devoid  of 
day; 

Winnowed  through  the  sieve  that  man  is,  all  but  love 
is  fanned  away. 

Every  sort  of  law  severe  appeared  to  issue  from 
man’s  fate; 

On  the  stumbling-blocks  of  evil  tripped  his  feet,  that 
hesitate. 

While  the  earth  in  wild  gyration  traverses  the  vast 
of  space. 

There  are  waves  of  midnight  passing  every  moment 
o’er  its  face. 


But  through  midnight  hearths  are  blazing;  we  are 
sure  the  sun  will  rise. 


716  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

And  the  waning  of  the  shadows  may  be  read  in 
human  eyes. 

Ignorance  is  overworn,  the  monster  half-awakening, 

That  for  zone  of  thought  had  blindness,  and  for 
speech  a stammering. 

Yea,  behold,  at  length  recoils  the  hateful  herd  of 
miseries ; 

It  is  Man  who  sweeps  out  Chaos,  an  all-conquering 
Hercules. 

Heaven  is  pivoted  on  the  solstice,  and  mankind  upon 
free-will ; 

Justice  is  the  mace  he  wields;  his  wrath  is  negative 
of  ill. 

As  he  wills  it,  all  obeys  him;  he  is  making  while  he 
mars ; 

His  experience  draws  its  fulness  from  the  night- 
springs  of  the  stars. 


LION’S  SLEEP  AT  NOON 

Le  lion  dort,  seul  sous  sa  voute 

Deep  in  his  cave  the  lion  rests; 

Enthralled  by  that  prodigious  slumber 
The  sultry  mid-day  sun  invests 
With  fiery  visions  without  number. 

The  deserts  list  awhile  with  dread, 

Then  freelier  breathe;  their  tyrant’s  home. 
For  the  lone  tracts  quake  ’neath  his  tread 
What  time  this  mighty  one  doth  roam. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  717 

His  hot  breath  heaves  his  tawny  hide ; 

In  darkness  steeped  is  his  red  eye; 

Deep  in  the  cavern,  on  his  side 
He  sleeps,  outstretched  formidably. 

Sleep  lulls  to  rest  his  sateless  rage; 

He  dreams,  oblivious  of  all  wrong, 

With  calm  brow  that  denotes  the  sage, 

With  dread  fangs  that  bespeak  the  strong. 

The  wells  are  drunk  by  noontide’s  drouth; 

Of  nought  but  slumber  is  he  fain. 

Like  a cavern  is  his  huge  mouth. 

And  like  a forest  his  ruddy  mane. 

He  scans  vast  craggy  heights  difform. 

Ossa  or  Pelion  scales  with  might, 

Amid  those  darkling  dreams  enorme 
Wherein  but  lions  take  delight. 

Upon  the  bare  rock  nought  is  heard 
Where  lordly  feet  are  wont  to  stray. 

If  now  one  heavy  paw  were  stirred. 

What  myriad  flies  would  flit  away! 


DURING  AN  ILLNESS 

Ou  dit  que  je  suis  fort  malade 

They  tell  me  I am  very  ill: 

Friend,  see  my  eyes  look  dead  and  wan; 
The  sinister  embrace  I feel 
Of  the  eternal  skeleton. 

I rise,  but  seek  again  my  berth ; 

For  rest,  I feel  as  if  I had 


718 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Already  in  my  throat  the  earth. 

And  scent  of  grave-yard,  foul  and  bad. 

Like  sail  that  to  the  port  would  ’scape, 

I shiver,  and  my  steps  are  slow; 

And  icy  cold  — a corpse-like  shape, 

Ghastly,  is  seen  my  sheet  below. 

The  power  to  warm  my  hands  is  past; 

Like  snow  my  flesh  dissolves  away; 

Upon  my  brow  I feel  the  blast 
Of  what  dread  thing,  I cannot  say. 

Is  it  the  wind  from  shades  obscure  — 

That  wind  which  pass’d  o’er  Jesus’  soul? 
Is’t  the  great  Nought  of  Epicure? 

Or  is’t  Spinosa’s  mighty  whole? 

The  doctor  goes  — no  hope  he  brings; 

Low  whisper  whosoe’er  is  near; 

All  sinks  and  sways,  e’en  lifeless  things 
Assume  an  attitude  of  fear. 

“ He’s  lost ! ” I hear  them  murmur  nigh. 

My  body  vacillates;  I feel 
The  helpless,  broken  armoury 
Of  mind  and  senses  fail  and  reel. 

That  moment  — infinite,  supreme  — 

From  out  the  darkness  meets  my  eyes, 

A pale,  vague  sun,  as  in  a dream, 

Through  the  wan  heavens  seems  to  rise. 

That  moment,  whether  false  or  true. 

Now  raises  its  mysterious  front; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


719 


Think  not  I tremble  at  the  view  — 

To  watch  such  secrets  is  my  wont. 

My  soul  transformed,  as  sight  dilates, 
My  reason  seeks  the  Godhead  veiled; 

At  last  I touch  the  eternal  gates. 

And  night  is  by  my  keys  assailed. 

To  God,  the  sexton  digs  our  way : 

To  die  is  but  to  learn  aright. 

“ Old  labourer ! 99  to  Death  I say, 

“ I come  to  see  the  hidden  sight.” 

TO  A FKIEND 
Sur  Veff ray  ante  falaise 

On  the  dread  cliffs  which  storms  infest, 
Walls  which  the  waves  dash  in  between 

A gloomy  rock,  there  blooms  at  rest 
A charming  meadow,  small  and  green. 

Since,  friend,  you  lend  me,  where  I dwell. 
Your  house,  remote  from  human-kind, 

*Twixt  the  two  joys  I love  so  well. 

The  giant  waves,  the  mighty  wind. 

All  thanks  and  hail!  If  fortune  frowns 
Or  smiles,  perchance  this  age  of  ours 

Is  like  the  seaweed  hieath  the  downs. 
Directed  by  abysmal  powers. 

Our  souls  are  like  the  drifted  clouds  — 
Winds,  fair  or  foul,  direct  their  flight; 

Hurried  in  disconnected  crowds. 

They  travel  towards  the  Infinite. 


72Q  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

This  human  turmoil,  vast  and  vain 
Of  which  our  reason  is  the  star. 

Takes,  leaves,  deserts  — brings  back  again 
Within  the  horizon,  Hope  afar! 

This  sea,  tumultuous,  fierce,  and  vast, 

Which  trembles  sore,  and  wounds  the  age, 

Foams,  threatens,  and  at  times  will  cast 
My  name  amid  its  cries  of  rage. 

Hatreds  about  me  cling  and  swarm, 

My  thought  — this  noise  would  vainly 
fright  — 

Is  like  the  bird  who  braves  the  storm. 

Amid  the  birds  that  haunt  the  night. 

And  while  your  fields  I cultivate. 

Just  as  you  wish,  with  loving  care. 

The  press,  with  much  invective  hate, 

Gnashes,  and  tugs  me  by  the  hair. 

Their  diatribes  are  fierce  and  sharp: 

Fm  ass,  and  rogue,  and  this  and  that; 

How  I am  Pradon  for  La  Harpe, 

Then  for  De  Maistre,  I seem  Marat! 

What  matters ! — hearts  are  drunk,  but  man, 
Sobered,  in  times  to  come  will  still 

Do  with  my  books  whatever  they  can, 

And  do  with  me  — whatever  they  will. 

But  I,  for  joy  and  wonder  see, 

In  Honfleur  meads,  your  bounty  lends. 

How  burdened  by  the  yellow  bee. 

The  lavender’s  sweet  blossom  bends. 


L’ANNlSE  TEEEIBLE 
1872 


L’ANNEE  TEEEIBLE 

THE  LESSON  OF  THE  PATRIOT  DEAD 
0 caresse  sublime 

Upon  the  grave’s  cold  mouth  there  ever  have  ca- 
resses clung 

For  those  who  died  ideally  good  and  grand  and  pure 
and  young; 

Under  the  scorn  of  all  who  clamour : “ There  is  noth- 
ing just ! ” 

And  bow  to  dread  inquisitor  and  worship  lords  of 
dust ; 

Let  sophists  give  the  lie,  hearts  droop,  and  courtiers 
play  the  worm. 

Our  martyrs  of  Democracy  the  Truth  sublime  affirm, 

And  when  all  seems  inert  upon  this  seething,  troub- 
lous round, 

And  when  the  rashest  knows  not  best  to  flee  or 
stand  his  ground. 

When  not  a single  war-cry  from  the  sombre  mass 
will  rush, 

When  o’er  the  universe  is  spread  by  Doubting  utter 
hush. 

Then  he  who  searches  well  within  the  walls  that 
close  immure 

Our  teachers,  leaders,  heroes  slain  because  they  lived 
too  pure. 

May  glue  his  ear  upon  the  ground  where  few  else 
came  to  grieve, 


724  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

And  ask  the  austere  shadows : “ Ho ! and  must  one 
still  believe? 

Eead  yet  the  orders : * Forward,  march ! ’ and 
‘ Charge ! ’ ” Then  form  the  lime, 

Which  burnt  the  bones  but  left  the  soul  (Oh!  ty- 
rants’ useless  crime!) 

Will  rise  reply : “ Yes ! 99  “ yes ! 99  and  “ yes ! 99  the 
thousand  thousandth  time! 


THE  TEEEIBLE  YEAE 

J'entreprends  de  confer  Vannee  epouvantable 

That  dreadful  year  I gird  me  to  relate. 

And  now  bent  o’er  my  desk  I hesitate. 

.Shall  I go  further  on,  or  shall  I stay? 

0,  France!  0,  grief!  to  see  a star  decay; 

I feel  the  blush  of  rueful  shame  arise; 

Plagues  heaped  on  plagues,  and  woes  on  agonies. 
Still  must  I on  for  truth  and  history; 

The  Age  stands  at  the  Bar ! The  witness  — I. 


SEDAN 

Toulon , c*est  peu;  Sedan , c’est  mieux 

Toulon  was  nought  — Sedan  is  more ! — The  wretch 
O’er  whom  does  logic  doom,  its  trammels  stretch, 
Slave  of  his  crimes  — given  up  with  bandaged  eyes, 
To  the  black  haps,  which  played  with  him  at  dice. 
Dreamer  — is  whelmed  in  endless  infamy ; 

The  far  off  formidable  gaze  on  high, 

Which  ne’er  looks  off  from  crime,  marked  all  his 
way; 

God  pushed  the  tyrant  — worm  and  ghost  to-day  — 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


725 


Into  a gloom  that  history  shudders  o’er. 

And  which  for  none  He  opened  up  before : 

There,  in  the  gulf’s  worst  chasm,  was  he  cast, 

The  Judge  all  that  was  prophesied,  surpassed. 

That  man  once  chanced  to  dream  — I reign,  ’tia 
true ! 

But  men  despise  me. — They  must  fear  me  too ; 

I,  in  my  turn,  will  rule  the  world;  I’m  quite 
My  uncle’s  equal.  Terror  is  my  right. 

No  Austerlitz,  yet  my  Brumaire  I have. 

For  him  both  Machiavel  and  Homer  slave ; 

And  both  kept  busy  with  the  task  he  set. 

I want  but  Machiavel  — I’ve  Galifet; 

Morny  was  mine,  Rouher,  Devienne,  remain. 
Madrid,  Vienna,  Lisbon,  though  unta’en  — 

Yet  Dresden,  Munich,  Naples  I shall  take; 

St.  Andrew’s  cross  from  off  the  ocean  rake, 

And  that  old  Albion  to  subjection  bring. 

A robber’s  nought,  unless  a conquering  King! 

I will  be  great  — a pirate  — slaves  will  own ; 

Mitred  Mastai, — Abdul  on  his  throne, — 

The  Czar,  in  bear-skin  robe  and  ermined  crown. 
Since  I with  shells  Montmartre  have  battered  down. 
I can  take  Prussia  — ’Tis  as  sharp  to  win 
By  siege  Tortoni,  as  besiege  Berlin, 

Who  took  a bank,  may  also  take  Mayence, 

Stamboul  and  Petersburg  are  mere  pretence. 

Pius  — Emmanuel  — both  at  daggers  drawn, 

Like  two  he-goats,  fierce  fighting  on  a lawn; 
England  and  Ireland  at  each  other  rail. 

And  Spain  on  Cuba  pours  an  iron  hail. 

Joseph  and  William  at  each  other’s  hair. 

Mock  Attila,  sham  Caesar,  fiercely  tear, 

And  I,  once  down-at-heel  and  tippler  known, 


726 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Shall  be  the  arbiter  of  every  throne  — 

This  glory,  I shall  reach  without  a blow. 

To  be  supreme  — the  mightiest  here  below  — 

From  false  Napoleon  seem  the  true  Charlemagne. 
’Tis  fine ! — How  do  the  trick  ? ask  banker  Magne 
To  advance  Leboeuf  some  money,  then  look  out, 
(Thus  Haroun  and  his  vizier  stole  about) 

When  all  men  sleep  and  streets  deserted  lie. 

And  quickly  try  the  chance,  and  surely  I 
May  cross  the  Ehine,  who  crossed  the  Rubicon. 
Garlands  and  flowers  shall  Pietri  throw  me  down, 
Magnan  is  dead,  but  Frossard  I retain; 

St.  Arnaud’s  missing,  still  I have  Bazaine; 

That  Bismarck’s  but  a mountebank,  is  plain, 

I think  I play  a part  as  well  as  he. 

Up  to  this  time,  chance  has  complied  with  me. 

Has  been  my  ’complice.  Fraud  for  wife  I have; 
Coward ! I’ve  conquered  — Shone,  although  a knave. 
Forward ! I’ve  Paris,  therefore  all  mankind. 

All  things  smile  on  me,  why  then  lag  behind? 

I want  but  doublets,  and  my  fortune’s  made. 

Let  me  go  on,  since  Fortune  is  a jade. 

The  world  is  mine,  I chose  to  govern  all, 

’Neath  juggler’s  cup  I hold  the  starry  ball; 

I cheated  France  — now  let  us  Europe  cheat. 

My  cloak,  December!  Night  — my  hiding  sheet; 
Eagles  are  gone,  I’ve  nought  but  buzzards  now. 

’Tis  night;  I’ll  use  it,  and  try  anyhow. 

Full  day,  on  Rome,  Vienna,  London  lies, 

And,  save  that  man,  all  opened  wide  their  eyes; 
Berlin  watched  silent,  smiling  with  delight. 

As  he  was  blind  he  fancied  it  was  night  — 

All  saw  the  light,  he  only  saw  the  shade. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  727 

Alas,  no  count  of  time,  place,  number  made, 
Groping  unhelped,  trusting  to  destiny; 

And  having  darkness  for  his  sole  ally. 

This  suicide,  France’s  proud  armies  took, 

Which  honour  never  yet  nor  fame  forsook. 

And  without  arms,  bread,  chiefs,  or  general. 

To  the  gulf’s  lowest  depth  conducted  all. 

Tranquil  the  whole  into  the  trap  he  led. 

“ Where  go  you?  ” cried  the  tomb  — 

“ Who  knows  ? ” — he  said. 


Agincourt  smiles,  henceforward  Eamilies  — 
Trafalgar  — shall  our  hours  of  sorrow  please. 
Poitiers  no  grief,  Blenheim  is  no  disgrace. 

Crecy  no  field  which  makes  us  veil  our  face. 

Black  Eosbach  almost  seems  a victory. 

This ! France,  thy  hideous  spot  in  history  — 

Sedan ! Death-name,  which  all  has  darkened  o’er, 
Spit  forth ! so  never  to  pronounce  it  more. 

Fierce  was  the  strife ! The  carnage  large  and  dire. 
Gave  to  the  combatants  a glance  of  fire. 

Shrieking  the  Furies  fell,  at  distance  stood, 

In  a dark  cloud  all  spattered  o’er  with  blood, 
Mitrailleuses,  mortars,  cannons  belch  their  war; 
Eavens,  those  busy  workers,  come  from  far. 

Banquets  are  slaughter,  massacre  a feast; 

Eage  filled  the  gloom,  and  spread  from  breast  to 
breast ; 

All  Nature  part  in  the  fierce  battle  takes; 

From  man  who  maddens,  to  the  tree  that  shakes; 
The  fatal  field  itself  seemed  frenzied  o’er; 


728 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


One  is  repulsed,  one  driven  on  before. 

Now  France,  now  Germany  successful  cope; 

All  either  had  of  death  the  tragic  hope, 

Or  hideous  joy  of  killing  — no  man  shrunk; 

All  with  the  acrid  scent  of  blood  were  drunk; 

None  yield ; each  this  the  fatal  hour  knows. 

That  seed  an  arm  of  fearful  power  sows; 

Bullets  rained  down  upon  the  darkened  sod; 

The  wounded  groaned,  the  nearest  on  them  trod; 
The  hoarse-mouthed  cannon  on  the  melee  blew 
A vast  thick  smoke,  which  on  the  breezes  flew. 
Country,  devotion,  fame,  their  thoughts  engage, 

And  duty’s  call,  beneath  their  desperate  rage, 

Sudden  — in  all  this  mist,  ’mid  thunder’s  breath, 
In  the  vast  gloom  where  laughs  imagined  death ; 

In  clash  of  epic  shocks,  and  in  the  hell 
Of  brass  and  copper  which  on  iron  fell ; 

The  crash,  the  crush  of  hurtling  shell  and  bomb. 
In  rain  and  rave  of  that  wild  hecatomb ; 

While  the  harsh  clarions  sound  their  dismal  cry, 
The  while  our  soldiers  strive  and  proudly  try 
To  mate  the  deeds  of  their  great  ancestors, 

A shudder  through  the  haggard  standards  pours, 
While  waiting  the  decree  of  destiny. — 

All  bleed,  fight  bravely,  strive,  or  nobly  die, — 

They  heard  the  monstrous  words  — “ I wish  to  live ! 99 

The  cannons  are  struck  dumb  — no  longer  strive 
The  blood-drunk  hosts  — the  abysmal  word  was 
said  — 

And  the  black  eagle  waits  with  claws  outspread. 


4 the  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  729 

X 

- /(  TO  LITTLE  JEANNE 

Vous  eutes  done  Ifiier  un  an 

You’ve  lived  a year,  then,  yesterday,  sweet  child, 
Prattling  thus  happily!  So  fledglings  wild, 
New-hatched  in  warmer  nest  ’neath  sheltering  bough, 
Chirp  merrily  to  feel  their  feathers  grow. 

Your  mouth’s  a rose,  Jeanne!  In  these  volumes 
grand 

Whose  pictures  please  you  — while  I trembling  stand 
To  see  their  big  leaves  tattered  by  your  hand  — 

Are  noble  lines;  but  nothing  half  your  worth, 

When  all  your  tiny  frame  rustles  with  mirth 

To  welcome  me.  No  work  of  author  wise 

Can  match  the  thought  half  springing  to  your  eyes, 

And  your  dim  reveries,  unfettered,  strange, 

Regarding  man  with  all  the  boundless  range 

Of  angel  innocence.  Methinks,  ’tis  clear 

That  God’s  not  far,  Jeanne,  when  I see  you  here. 

Ah ! twelve  months  old : ’tis  quite  an  age,  and  brings 
Grave  moments,  though  your  soul  to  rapture  clings, 
You’re  at  that  hour  of  life  most  like  to  heaven, 
When  present  joy  no  cares,  no  sorrows  leaven : 

When  man  no  shadow  feels : if  fond  caress 
Pound  parent  twines,  children  the  world  possess. 
Your  waking  hopes,  your  dreams  of  mirth  and  love 
From  Charles  to  Alice,  father  to  mother,  rove; 

No  wider  range  of  view  your  heart  can  take 
Than  what  her  nursing  and  his  bright  smiles  make; 
They  two  alone  on  this  your  opening  hour 
Can  gleams  of  tenderness  and  gladness  pour : 

They  two  — none  else,  Jeanne  ! Yet  ’tis  just,  and  I, 
Poor  grandsire,  dare  but  to  stand  humbly  by. 


730 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


You  come  — I go : though  gloom  alone  my  right. 
Blest  be  the  destiny  which  gives  you  light. 

Your  fair-haired  brother  George  and  you  beside 
Me  play  — in  watching  you  is  all  my  pride ; 

And  all  I ask  — by  countless  sorrows  tried  — 

The  grave ; o’er  which  in  shadowy  form  may  show 
Your  cradles  gilded  by  the  morning’s  glow. 

Pure  new-born  wonderer ! your  infant  life 
Strange  welcome  found,  Jeanne,  in  this  time  of 
strife : 

Like  wild-bee  humming  through  the  woods  your  play, 
And  baby  smiles  have  dared  a world  at  bay : 

Your  tiny  accents  lisp  their  gentle  charms 
To  mighty  Paris  clashing  mighty  arms. 

Ah ! when  I see  you,  child,  and  when  I hear 
You  sing,  or  try,  with  low  voice  whispering  near. 

And  touch  of  fingers  soft,  my  grief  to  cheer, 

I dream  this  darkness,  where  the  tempests  groan, 
Trembles,  and  passes  with  half-uttered  moan. 

For  though  these  hundred  towers  of  Paris  bend, 
Though  close  as  foundering  ship  her  glory’s  end, 
Though  rocks  the  universe,  which  we  defend; 

Still  to  great  cannon  on  our  ramparts  piled, 

God  sends  His  blessing  by  a little  child. 


FROM  THE  INVESTED  WALLS  OF  PARIS 
L’occident  etait  blanc 

Bright  white  the  west,  dense  black  the  eastern  sky: 
As  some  invisible  arm  from  heaven  let  fall, 

To  serve  eve’s  columns  for  a canopy, 

O’er  this  horizon  a shroud,  o’er  that  a pall. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


731 


Night  shut  in  earth,  as  t’were  a prison  cold. 

Last  plaint  of  bird,  last  light  of  leaf,  were 
quenched. 

Descending,  again  I looked  toward  heaven  — behold ! 
In  the  low  west  a bright  blade  shone,  blood- 
drenched. 

That  made  me  muse  of  some  vast  duel  dread 

Fought  by  a God  matched  ’gainst  some  giant-birth : 
The  awful  sword  o’  the  vanquished  one  had  said, 
Bloodied  with  battle,  fallen  from  heaven  to  earth ! 


PARIS  SLANDERED 

Pour  la  sinistre  nuit  Vaurore  est  un  scandale 

The  gloomy  night,  to  hate  the  dawn  is  wont : 
Th’  Athenian  seems  to  Vandal  an  affront. 

Paris,  while  they  attack,  they  think  it  best 
To  make  their  ambush  look  like  an  arrest. 
Pedant  helps  soldier;  both  together  vie 
To  asperse  th’  heroic  city.  Calumny, 

Mingled  with  shells,  in  the  bombardment  rains; 
The  soldier  kills,  and  lies  the  pleader  feigns. 
Your  morals,  your  religion  they  accuse, 

And  insults  heap  their  murder  to  excuse. 

They  slander  that  they  may  assassinate. 

City  and  People,  as  a Senate  great, 

Fight,  draw  the  sword,  0 city  of  the  light, 
Which  fosters  art,  defends  the  cotter’s  right. 
Let,  0 proud  home  of  man’s  equality, 

Howl  round  thee  the  foul  hordes  of  bigotry  — - 
Black  props  of  throne  and  altar  — hypocrites ! 
Who,  in  all  ages,  have  proscribed  the  lights; 
Who  guard  all  Gods  against  th’  inquiring  mind ; 


732 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Who  screech  in  every  history  we  find  — 

At  Thebes,  Mycenae,  Delphi,  Memphis,  Home  — 
Like  bark  of  unclean  dogs  from  distance  come. 


TO  THE  BISHOP  WHO  CALLED  ME  AN 
ATHEIST 

A thee?  entendons-nous , pretre , une  fois  pour  toutes 

Me,  reverend  sir,  “ an  Atheist  ” you  call  ? 

Let’s  understand  each  other,  once  for  all. 

To  play  the  spy  on  me,  to  trap  my  soul, 

To  act  eaves-dropper,  look  through  the  keyhole 
To  the  inside  of  my  spirit,  search  how  deep 
My  doubts  may  reach,  even  into  hell  to  peep 
And  read  the  records  of  its  dark  police 
Across  that  sea  of  sighs  that  never  cease, 

To  see  what  I believe,  and  what  deny  — 

Spare  yourself  all  these  needless  pains,  say  I. 

My  faith  is  simple;  here  I write  my  creed. 

I love  plain  words,  such  as  who  runs  may  read. 

If  we  are  speaking  of  an  aged  man 
White-bearded,  seated  on  a stage  divan 
*Twixt  an  archangel  and  a seer;  a kind 
Of  Emperor  or  Pope ; a cloud  behind, 

A bird  above  his  head ; his  offspring  pale 

Held  in  his  arms,  pierced  through  with  many  a nail 

A jealous  God,  that  is  both  one  and  three; 

A vengeful,  with  an  ear  for  psalmody; 

Punishing  children  for  their  father’s  crime, 
Hallowing  royal  brigands  in  their  slime. 

Stopping  the  sun  short,  every  evening, 

At  risk  of  snapping  off  the  great  main-spring ; 

God,  ignorant  of  science  physical, 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


733 


Man’s  counterpart  in  large ; the  same  in  small ; 
Angry  at  times,  and  somewhat  given  to  pout, 

Like  Pere  Duchene  with  his  big  sabre  out; 

Tardy  in  pardon,  quick  at  condemnation, 
Checking  his  mother’s  passes  to  salvation; 

A God  who,  seated  in  his  azure  sky. 

Makes  it  his  business  with  our  faults  to  vie, 

His  sport  to  keep  a pack  of  miseries 
As  squires  keep  hounds ; who  makes  disturbances ; 
Sets  Nimrod,  Cyrus  loose,  and  gets  us  bitten 
By  Attila,  and  by  Cambyses  eaten, 

I am,  sir  priest,  whoe’er  may  think  it  odd, 

An  Atheist,  to  this  good-old-fashioned  God. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  have  to  do 
With  the  all-essential  Being  above  us,  who 
In  all  we  are  concentrates  all  we  dream; 

In  whom  the  dissonances  of  nature  seem 
Accorded,  and  the  universal  span 
Claims  personality,  no  less  than  man ; 

That  Being,  whose  soul  I feel  within  my  own ; 
Who  ever  pleads  with  me,  in  still  small  tone, 

For  truth  against  illusion,  while  around 
The  senses  boil,  and  half  my  powers  are  drowned; 
If  with  that  witness  who  within  has  wrought 
Now  pain,  now  pleasure  at  a passing  thought, 

So  that,  according  as  I sink  or  soar, 

The  brute,  or  spirit,  prevails  in  me  the  more; 

If  with  that  everlasting  marvel,  rife 
With  something  more  than  we  possess  of  life, 
Wherewith  our  soul  becomes  intoxicate 
As  often  as  it  comes,  soaring  elate, 

As  Jesus  and  as  Socrates  did  come, 

For  truth,  right,  virtue,  straight  to  martyrdom; 
Oft  as  high  duty  impels  it  down  the  steep, 


734 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Oft  as  it  skims  a halcyon  o’er  the  deep. 

Oft  as  with  loftier  aim  it  penetrates 
Athwart  the  ugly  shadow  of  its  hates. 

And  on  the  farther  frontier  of  the  gloom 
Seeks  for  the  dawn;  0 priest,  if  we  assume 
To  speak  of  that  First  Essence,  whom  a creed 
Neither  unmakes  nor  makes;  whom  we  concede 
Wise,  and  suppose  benignant;  without  face, 
Without  a body,  or  son;  having  more  grace 
Of  fatherhood  the  while,  and  more  of  love. 

Than  summer  has  of  sunlight  from  above; 

If  of  that  vast  unknown,  whom  Holy  Writ 
Names  not,  explains  not,  makes  not  known  one  whit 
Of  whom  no  scribes,  no  commentators  speak, 

Most  High  that  looms,  dim  as  a mountain-peak, 

O’er  cradled  infant  and  enshrouded  dead ; 

Not  eatable  in  any  unleavened  bread; 

If  of  that  dizzy  summit  of  all  natures 
Who  speaks  in  tongues  of  elemental  creatures, 

(Not  priests,  or  Bibles;)  Him,  who  reads  the  abyss 
To  whom  the  heaven  of  heavens  a temple  is; 

Not  sensual;  not  ceremonial; 

The  law,  the  life,  the  very  soul  of  all; 

Invisible,  because  He  is  immense; 

Intangible,  save  that  beyond  our  sense, 

•Past  all  those  forms,  which  any  breath  can  melt. 

In  nothing  grasped.  He  is  in  all  things  felt ; 

If  of  the  all-transcending  quietude, 

Solstice  of  reason,  justice,  right,  and  good. 

Who,  stable  make-weight  of  infinity, 

That  is,  that  was,  that  evermore  shall  be. 

Sets  bounds  to  suns,  gives  patience  in  distress. 
Without  us  light,  within  us  consciousness; 

Who  hath  shone  ever  in  heaven,  and  under  earth ; 
And  is  the  Birth;  and  is  the  Second  Birth; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


735 


If  of  the  eternal,  single,  vast  First  Cause, 

Whose  being  is  His  thought ; whose  thought,  the  laws 
Whence  all  things  have  their  being;  whom  I call 
God,  merely  as  the  greatest  name  of  all: 

Then,  we  change  sides.  Then  turn  our  spirits  home; 
Thine  to  the  night,  the  mire,  the  ghastly  gloom 
Where  only  mockings  and  negations  live; 

Mine  to  the  light,  the  august  affirmative, 

Hymn,  ecstasy  of  my  rapt  soul ! Then,  Priest, 

I am  believer,  and  thou  Atheist. 

TO  A SICK  CHILD  DUPING  THE  SIEGE 

Si  vous  continuez  d'etre  ainsi  toute  pale 

If  you  continue  thus  so  wan  and  white; 

If  I,  one  day,  behold 

You  pass  from  out  our  dull  air  to  the  light. 

You,  infant  — I,  so  old: 

If  I the  thread  of  our  two  lives  must  see 
Thus  blent  to  human  view, 

I who  would  fain  know  death  was  near  to  me, 

And  far  away  for  you ; 

If  your  small  hands  remain  such  fragile  things; 

If,  in  your  cradle  stirred, 

You  have  the  mien  of  waiting  there  for  wings, 

Like  to  some  new-fledged  bird ; 

Not  rooted  to  our  earth  you  seem  to  be. 

If  still,  beneath  the  skies, 

You  turn,  0 Jeanne,  on  our  mystery 
Soft,  discontented  eyes! 

If  I behold  you,  gay  and  strong  no  more ; 

If  you  mope  sadly  thus; 

If  you  behind  you  have  not  shut  the  door. 

Through  which  you  came  to  us; 


736 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


If  you  no  more  like  some  fair  dame  I see 
Laugh,  walk,  be  well  and  gay ; 

If  like  a little  soul  you  seem  to  me 
That  fain  would  fly  away  — 

Fll  deem  that  to  this  world,  where  oft  are  blent 
The  pall  and  swaddling-band, 

;You  came  but  to  depart  — an  angel  sent 
To  bear  me  from  the  land. 


THE  FOETS  OF  PARIS 

Ils  sont  les  chiens  de  garde  enormes  de  Paris 

They  are  the  watch-dogs,  terrible  superb, 
Enormous,  faithfully  that  Paris  guard. 

As  each  moment  we  could  be  surprised. 

As  a wild  horde  is  there,  as  ambush  vile 
Creeps  sometimes  even  to  the  city  walls. 

Nineteen  in  number,  scattered  on  the  mounts 
They  watch, — unquiet,  menacing,  sublime. 

Over  dark  spaces  limitless,  at  eve. 

And  as  the  night  advances,  warn,  inform, 

And  one  another  aid,  far  stretching  out 
Their  necks  of  bronze  around  the  walls  immense. 
They  rest  awake,  while  peacefully  we  sleep, 

And  in  their  hoarse  lungs  latent  thunders  growl 
Low  premonitions.  Sometimes  from  the  hills, 
Sharply  and  suddenly  bestrewed  with  stars, 

A lightning  darts  athwart  the  sombre  night 
Over  the  valleys;  then  the  heavy  veil 
Of  twilight  thick,  or  utter  darkness,  falls 
Upon  us,  masking  in  its  silence  deep 
A treacherous  snare,  and  in  its  peace,  a camp ; 
Like  a huge  crawling  serpent  round  us  winds 
The  enemy,  and  enlaces  us  in  coils 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


737 


Inveterate,  interminable,  but  in  vain. 

At  a respectful  distance  keep  the  forts 
A multitude,  a populace  of  monstrous  guns. 

That,  in  the  far  horizon,  wolf-like  prowl. 

Bivouac,  and  tomb,  and  prison,  Paris  now  is  all. 
Upright  and  straight  before  the  universe 
That  has  become  a solitude,  she  stands 
A sentinel,  and  surprised  with  weariness 
From  over-watching,  slumbers;  all  is  still. 

Men,  women,  children,  sobs  passionate,  bursts 
Of  triumphant  laughter,  cars,  footsteps,  quays, 
Squares,  crossways,  and  the  river’s  sandy  banks, 
The  thousand  roofs  whence  issue  murmurs  low. 
The  murmurs  of  our  dreams,  the  hope  that  says 
I trust  and  I believe,  the  hunger,  that  I die, 

The  dark  despair  that  knows  not  what  it  says, 
All,  all  keep  silence.  0 thou  mighty  crowd ! 

0 noises  indistinct  and  vague!  0 sleep, 

Of  all  a word ! And  0 great  glorious  dreams. 
Unfathomable,  that  ever  one  and  all 
Mock  our  frail  wisdom,  now  are  ye  submerged 
In  one  vast  ocean  of  oblivion  deep. 

But  they  are  there,  formidable  and  grand. 
Eternally  on  watch. 

On  a sudden  spring 
The  people,  startled,  breathless,  doleful,  awed, 
And  bend  to  listen.  What  is  it  they  hear  ? 

A subterraneous  roar,  a voice  profound 
As  from  a mountain’s  bowels.  All  the  town 
Listens  intent,  and  all  the  country  round 
Awakes.  And  hark ! to  the  first  rumbling  sound 
Succeeds  a second,  hollow,  sullen,  fierce, 

And  in  the  darkness  other  noises  crash, 

And  echo  follows  echo  flying  far! 


738 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


A hundred  voices  terrible  through  night. 

Rolling,  reverberating,  and  dying  off! 

It  is  the  forts.  It  is  that  they  have  seen 
In  depths  profound  of  spaces  vast  and  dim. 

The  sinister  cannon-waggons  darkly  grouped; 

It  is,  that  they  the  outlines  have  surprised 
Of  cannons  ranged ; it  is  that  in  some  wood 
From  whence  the  owl  has  fled  on  hurried  wings, 
Beside  a field,  they  faintly  have  descried 
The  black  swarm  of  battalions  on  the  march, 
With  bayonet  gleams,  like  points  of  silver  sharp 
Commingled ; it  is  that  in  thickets  dense 
They  have  found  out  the  flash  of  traitorous  eyes 
Or  tread  of  stealthy  steps. 

How  grand  they  are, 

These  great  watch-dogs,  that  in  the  darkness  bay ! 


TOYS  AND  TRAGEDY 

Enfants,  on  vous  dira  plus  tard 

In  later  years,  they’ll  tell  you  grandpapa 
Adored  his  little  darlings ; for  them  did 
His  utmost  just  to  pleasure  them  and  mar 
No  moments  with  a frown  or  growl  amid 
Their  rosy  rompings;  that  he  loved  them  so 

(Though  men  have  called  him  bitter,  cold,  and 
stern,) 

That  in  the  famous  winter  when  the  snow 
Covered  poor  Paris,  he  went,  old  and  worn, 

To  buy  them  dolls,  despite  the  falling  shells, 

At  which  laughed  Punch,  and  they,  and  shook  his 
bells. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


739 


A LETTER  BY  BALLOON  POST 

Paris  terrible  et  gai  combat . Bonjour,  madame 

Paris  is  warring,  formidably  gay. 

Good-morning,  Madam ! How  are  you  to-day  ? 

We  are  one  people,  here,  one  world,  one  soul; 

None  for  himself;  each  careful  for  the  whole. 

We  have  no  sun,  no  succour  — and  no  fear. 

All  will  go  well,  if  none  are  napping  here. 

Schmitz  writes  despatches  on  the  situation. 

As  flat  as  iEschylus  in  Bohn’s  translation. 

I purchased  four  fresh  eggs  for  shillings  ten. 

Not  for  myself,  but  for  my  grandchildren. 

Paris  is  pent  so  closely  in  the  net, 

So  fast  beleaguered,  and  so  hard  beset, 

Our  stomachs  are  turned  NoalTs  arks;  we  eat 
Horse-meat  and  bear-meat,  rats’  meat,  asses’  meat. 
No  trees  are  left;  they  are  felled,  and  sawn  to  logs; 
Gone  are  the  Champs  Elysees  — to  the  dogs. 

The  panes  are  frosted,  and  we  have  no  fire 
To  get  the  laundry  any  drier, 

And  so  — good-bye  clean  shirts!  The  evening  stirs 
A vast  low  buzzing  at  the  street-corners 
Of  testy  voices,  as  the  crowd  turns  out, 

With  now  and  then  a song,  or  warlike  shout. 

All  down  the  river,  hesitating,  flows 
The  broken  ice  in  archipelagoes, 

And  gunboats  pass,  and  leave  a wake  behind. 

We  live  on  air  — on  food  of  any  kind  — 

And  are  content.  Upon  our  napless  board, 

Where  hunger  waits,  a chance  potato  stored 
Is  hailed  a queen,  and  onions  are  divine, 

As  once  they  were  in  Egypt  — when  we  dine. 
Numbed  are  our  fingers;  fuel,  too,  we  lack. 


740  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

Our  coal  is  failing,  but  our  bread  is  black. 

There  is  no  gas,  so  Paris  goes  to  sleep 
Under  one  vast  extinguisher.  We  creep, 

From  six  o’clock,  in  darkness.  The  grenades 
Make  a tremendous  pother  o’er  our  heads; 

Out  of  a handsome  fragment  I have  made 
This  inkstand.  Paris,  bludgeoned  and  betrayed, 
Utters  no  plaint.  The  burghers  man  the  wall; 
These  fathers,  husbands,  brothers  of  us  all 
Watch  under  fire,  in  martial  cap  and  hood. 

And  sleep  upon  a mattress  made  of  wood. 

Moltke  bombards  us,  Bismarck  slanders  us. 

So  be  it.  Paris  is  heroic,  thus; 

And  Paris  is  — a woman ; she  can  be 
Both  fair  and  valorous;  her  eyes  range  free. 
Smiling  and  thoughtful,  under  the  broad  noon. 
From  homing  pigeon  to  escaped  balloon. 

Her  awfulness  casts  off  its  frivolous  slough; 

And,  happy  to  discern  no  wavering  now, 

I cry  to  all  “ Love ! Strive ! Forget,  and  know 
No  name  save  France,  no  foeman  but  the  foe ! ” 

The  women  — oh  be  proud  of  them  to-day ! 

They  are  sublime,  when  everything  gives  way. 

The  glory  of  the  women  of  old  Borne 

Lay  in  their  homely  homes,  their  love  of  home, 

Their  hands  made  hard  with  spinning  the  coarse 
wool. 

Their  slumbers  brief,  their  carriage  worshipful, 

The  camp  of  Hannibal  before  their  gates. 

And  the  Port-Colline  guarded  by  their  mates. 

Those  days  return.  The  cat-like  giantess, 

Prussia,  is  gripping  Paris.  Leopardess, 

She  claws  the  great  — the  palpitating  heart 
Of  the  whole  world,  already  dead,  in  part. 

In  Paris,  in  this  cruel  strait,  the  wench 


THE  POEMS  OP  VICTOR  HUGO  741 

Has  become  Roman,  while  the  man  is  French. 

Their  attitude  would  please  old  J uvenal ; 

Women  of  Paris,  they  accept  it  all, 

The  nightly  watching  at  the  flesher’s  shop, 

The  snow,  the  rainfall  pouring,  drop  by  drop, 

As  from  an  upturned  vessel  overhead; 

Their  hearths  extinct,  their  feet  with  frost-bite  dead. 
The  famine  and  the  terror  and  the  fight. 

Country  and  duty,  nothing  else,  in  sight. 

Our  citadels  in  the  bombardment  hum; 

At  dawn  the  trumpet  answers  to  the  drum; 

The  assembly  wakes,  with  the  fresh  breath  of  morn. 
The  city,  gleaming  through  the  shade  forlorn; 

A quavering  sennet  sounds  from  street  to  street; 

We  dream  of  gaining  some  success;  we  greet 
Brothers  in  arms;  we  set  our  faces  fast; 

We  bare  our  foreheads  to  the  thunder-blast. 

Paris,  the  city  of  renown  and  sorrow. 

Sees  — and  salutes  — the  terrors  of  the  morrow. 

Is  cold,  is  hunger  to  be  looked  for  — say  ? 

Well,  it  is  night.  What  follows  night?  The  day. 
We  suffer,  true ; but  with  a constant  mood. 

Prussia’s  our  prison,  Paris  our  Latude. 

Courage!  our  ancient  fires  again  shall  burn; 

Stay  but  a month,  the  tide  of  war  will  turn ; 

Then,  madam,  we  intend  to  go  and  rest 
In  the  green  fields,  and  have  you  for  a guest ; 

And  we  shall  call  on  you  in  March,  all  three. 

If  we  are  not  first  killed,  in  February. 


743 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


BRUTE  WAE 

Ouvriere  sans  yeux , Penelope  imbecile 

Toiler  sans  eyes,  dull-brained  Penelope, 

Cradler  of  chaos,  powerless  to  create, 

War,  whom  the  clash  of  iron  fires  to  glee, 

The  furious  blast  of  clarions  makes  elate, — 
Quaffer  of  blood,  foul  hag  that  to  thy  feast 

Lur’st  men  and  madden’st  them  with  vile  de- 
light,— 

Cloud,  swollen  with  thunder  North,  South,  West  and 
East, 

Fulfilled  with  rays  darker  than  darkest  night, — 
Vast  Madness,  that  for  swords  keen  lightnings  wield- 
est, 

What  is  thy  use,  dire  birth  of  hellish  race, 

If  while  thou  ruinest  sin,  crime  thou  upbuildest, 
Setting  the  monster  P the  beast’s  pride  of  place ; 

If  with  thine  awful  darkness  thou  dost  smother 
One  Emperor,  but  to  yield  earth  thence  another  ? 

THE  CARRIES  PIGEON 

Oh!  qu’est-ce  que  c’est  done  que  VInconnu 

Who  then  — oh,  who,  is  like  our  God  so  great, 

Who  makes  the  seed  expand  beneath  the  mountain’s 
weight ; 

Who  for  a swallow’s  nest  leaves  one  old  castle  wall. 
Who  lets  for  famished  bettles  savoury  apples  fall, 
Who  bids  a pigmy  win  where  Titans  fail,  in  yoke. 
And,  in  what  we  deem  fruitless  roar  and  smoke. 
Makes  Etna,  Chimborazo,  still  His  praises  sing, 

And  saves  a city  by  a word  lapped  ’neath  a pigeon’s 
wing ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


743 


THE  SOETIE 
L’aube  froide  blemit 

The  chill  dawn  glimmered,  wan  for  night’s  defeat. 

A troop  defiled  in  order  through  the  street; 

I followed,  by  that  rumour  vast  drawn  on 
Of  men’s  feet  trampling  in  strong  unison. 

Citizens  were  they  marching  for  the  fight ; 

Pure  Warriors!  In  the  ranks,  less  as  to  height. 

But  by  the  heart  compeer,  the  child  with  pride 
Held  by  the  hand  his  father,  by  whose  side. 

Bearing  her  husband’s  rifle,  marched  the  wife. 

Still,  as  of  yore,  our  Gallic  girls  in  strife 

Are  proud  their  warriors’  glittering  arms  to  bear. 

If  one  beard  Caesar,  or  brave  Attila. 

What  next?  The  child  laughs;  those  dark  eyes  of 
yours. 

Mother,  are  dry.  Paris  defeat  endures, 

But  all  her  children  are  on  this  agreed. 

That,  save  by  shame,  no  people’s  shamed  indeed. 
That  their  dead  sires  will  blush  not,  come  what  may, 
So  Paris  die  that  Prance  may  live  for  aye. 

Honour  we  keep ; for  the  rest  we  care  not,  we  — 

So  forward ! On  pale  brows  inscribed  we  see, 

’Bove  eyes  aflame,  Faith,  Courage,  and  Starvation. 
Onward  these  warriors  of  a glorious  nation 
March,  ’neath  her  banner,  torn,  but  undefiled : 

With  the  battalion  mingle  wife  and  child, 

To  leave  it  only  at  the  city-gates. 

These  men  devoted,  and  their  warrior-mates 
Sing.  Paris  bleeds  for  the  whole  human  race. 

An  ambulance  passes ; of  all  tyrants  base 
One  muses,  whose  least  whim  makes  rivers  red 
Flow  from  out  veins  of  victor  and  vanquished. 


744 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


The  hour  draws  nigh;  to  the  sortie  drums  beat, 
While  troops  high-hearted  pour  from  street  on  street ; 
All  hasten ; to  the  leaguer  woe  this  morn ! 

Ambushes ! — but  all  snares  one  holds  in  scorn, 
Knowing  the  valiant,  vanquished  thus,  acclaimed 
Glorious  of  all  men,  while  the  victor’s  shamed. 

At  th’  walls  they  arrive ; concentrate ; suddenly 
Adrift  on  the  wind  a wreath  of  smoke  we  see; 

Halt ! ’Tis  the  signal-gun ! Another ! lo, 

Through  massed  battalions  runs  a mighty  throe! 
The  moment’s  come;  the  gates  are  opened  wide; 
Trumpets,  speak  loud ! yon  low  green  plains  divide 
From  us  the  woods  where  lurks  the  foe  unseen; 

The  horizon  stretches  motionless,  serene, 
Slumberous,  insidious,  with  dire  flames  replete. 
Listen,  low  words  — “ Adieu ! — my  rifle,  sweet ! ” 

And  wives,  heart-broken,  brow  where  nought’s  amiss. 
Give  up  the  rifles,  sacred  with  Love’s  kiss. 


IN  THE  CIRCUS 

Le  lion  du  midi  voit  venir  Vours  polaire 

The  southern  Lion  saw  the  Polar  Bear 
Push  at  him,  gnash,  and,  full  of  fiery  glare 
Attack  him,  growling  worse  than  Nubian  wind. 
The  Lion  said — “ You  idiot,  never  mind; 

We’re  in  the  circus,  and  you  fight  with  me  — 
What  for  ? That  low-browed  fellow  do  you  see  ? 
That’s  Nero  — Eoman  Emperor,  so  it  haps;  — 
You  fight  for  him ; bleed,  and  he  laughs  and  claps. 
Brother,  in  the  wide  world  we  ne’er  were  foes, 

And  heaven  alike  o’er  each  its  mantle  throws. 

You  see  above  no  fewer  stars  than  I. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


745 


With  us,  what  wants  that  master  set  on  high  ? 
He’s  pleased ! but  we  ? — we  by  his  order  fight : 
His  business  is  to  laugh,  and  ours  to  bite. 

He  makes  us  kill  each  other;  while,  good  sooth. 
Brother,  my  claw  gives  answer  to  your  tooth. 
He’s  there  upon  his  throne,  with  gaze  intent, 
Our  pangs  his  sport ! Our  spheres  are  different. 
Brother,  when  we  our  life-blood  shed  in  streams. 
To  him,  in  purple  clad,  it  harmless  seems. 

Come,  dolt,  set  on ! my  claws  prepared  you  see : 
But  still  I think  and  say,  we  fools  shall  be 
In  internecine  strife  to  spend  our  power. 

And  wiser  ’twere  the  Emperor  to  devour ! 


CAPITULATION 

Ainsi  les  nations  les  plus  grandes  chavirent! 

Thus  greatest  nations  to  their  fall  descend  — 

*Tis  in  miscarriage  all  their  labours  end; 

Was  it  for  this,  th’  indignant  people  say. 

We  did  all  night  on  the  high  bastions  stay? 

Were  we  for  this  unconquered,  lofty,  stark, 

And  of  the  Prussian  missiles  stood  the  mark? 

Was  it  for  this,  we  heroes,  martyrs  were. 

And  more  and  fiercer  war  than  Tyre  bare; 

Than  Corinth  or  Byzantium  more  endured, 

For  this,  for  five  long  months,  have  been  immured 
By  those  black  furtive  Teutons,  in  whose  eyes 
The  gloomy  stupor  of  weird  forests  lies! 

For  this  dug  mines,  and  borne  the  strife  immense. 
Broke  bridges,  famine  braved,  and  pestilence; 

Did  trenches  make,  fix  piles,  and  towers  build ! 

0 France ! and  with  the  seed  of  slaughter  filled 


746 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


The  grave  — of  battles  the  black  granary ! 

For  this  did  storm  and  shot  each  day  defy ! 

High  Heavens ! after  such  tests,  such  noble  deeds 
By  -Paris  wrought  which  uncomplaining  bleeds, — 
After  vast  hopes,  and  expectations  high 
Of  the  proud  town  panting  for  victory : 

Which  dashing  ’gainst  the  cannon  iron  knit, 
Appeared  its  walls  the  champ,  as  horse  its  bit, — 
Where  valour  greater  grew,  new  woes  to  meet, 
Where  children  shelled  while  running  in  the  street. 
Picked  up  the  shells,  and  cannon  balls  in  sport, — 
When  not  one  single  citizen  fell  short ; — 

Three  hundred  thousand  for  the  battle  steeled  — 

— Their  officers  th’  unconquered  city  yield! 

With  your  devotion,  fury,  pride  of  heart, 

And  courage, — they  have  played  the  coward’s  part. 
People ! — And  history  shall  loathe  and  blame 
Such  glory,  tarnished  by  so  deep  a shame. 


BEFOBE  THE  CONCLUSION  OF  THE  TREATY 

Si  nous  terminons  cette  guerre 

If  this  foul  war  we  ended  see. 

And  grant  all  Prussia  longs  to  get. 

Then,  like  a glass  our  France  would  be. 

Upon  a pothouse  table  set : — 

You  empty  it,  and  then  you  break ! 

Our  haughty  country  is  no  more. 

0 grief,  that  shame  should  overtake 
Where  only  honour  lived  of  yore! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


747 


Black  morrow,  with  dismay  for  text; 

All  dregs  we  drink  — on  ashes  feed; 
The  eagles  gone ; there  follow  next 
The  vultures,  these  do  hawks  succeed. 

Two  provinces  now  torn  away  — 

Metz  poisoned,  Strasburg  crucified; 
Sedan,  deserter  in  the  fray, 

A brand  on  France  that  will  abide. 

There  lives  in  souls  degenerate 
Base  love  of  loathly  happiness  — 

Pride  cast  away;  they  cultivate 

The  growth,  the  increase  of  disgrace. 

Our  ancient  splendour  stained,  belied, 

Our  mighty  wars  dishonoured  now. 

The  country  mazed  and  stupefied, 

Unused  to  live  with  lowered  brow. 

The  foeman  in  our  citadels; 

Attila’s  shadow  o’er  us  thrown ; 

The  swallow  to  its  fellow  tells. 

This  is  not  France  that  we  have  known. 

Her  mouth  full  of  the  foul  Bazaine ! 

Renown,  with  slow  and  broken  wing. 
Does  with  unwholesome  slaver  stain 
The  trump  that  erst  did  nobly  ring. 

Brethren  alone  they  dare  to  fight. 

Bayard!  thy  name  no  longer  lives; 

They  murder  now,  to  hide  from  sight 
That  lately  they  were  fugitives. 


£48  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

Black  night  mounts  up  on  every  brow. 

And  not  a soul  dares  soar  on  high; 
Heaven  does  itself  our  shame  avow, 

Since  we  refuse  to  seek  the  sky. 

Chill  hearts  are  here,  and  darkness  deep  — 
People  from  people  separate 
All  wide  apart  and  hostile  keep, 

And  love  is  dead,  and  turned  to  hate. 

Prussia  and  France  are  foemen  sworn; 

That  host  is  all  with  hatred  fired ; 

Our  dark  eclipse  their  joyful  morn  — 

Our  tomb,  by  all  of  them  desired. 

Shipwreck!  To  mighty  deeds  good  bye! 

Deceived,  deceiving  all  is  made; 

“ The  cowards ! ” to  our  flag  they  cry  — 
And  to  our  cannon,  “ They’re  afraid.” 

Our  pride,  our  hopes,  departed  all, 

A shroud  on  history  fallen  is  — 

0 God ! permit  not  France  to  fall 
In  gulf  of  such  a peace  as  this. 


TO  THOSE  WHO  TALK  ABOUT  FRATERNITY 

Quand  nous  serous  vainqueurs 

When  we  are  conquerors  we’ll  see  — till  then 
The  feeling  fitting  grief  is  fierce  disdain: 

Best  suits  defeat  the  gloomy  downcast  eye. 

Free,  we  spread  light;  enslaved,  we  prophesy. 

We’re  burked,  and  ’twixt  us  twain  no  love  can  dwell ! 
The  ruin  of  the  invader  I foretell. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


749 


’Tis  proper  pride,  in  those  who  feel  the  chain, 
Hatred  alone  for  shelter  to  retain; 

To  love  the  Germans,  that  will  come,  what  time 
Our  victory  makes  to  love  no  longer  crime. 

Peace  to  proclaim  is  always  false  and  vain 
In  those  who,  vanquished,  have  not  vengeance  ta’en. 
Let’s  wait  the  time  when  we  the  road  command; 
When  ’neath  our  feet  — then  hold  them  out  the 
hand. 

I can  but  bleed  so  long  as  France  doth  weep; 

For  fitter  time  all  talk  of  concord  keep; 

Fraternity  stammered  out,  and  meant  but  half. 

But  makes  the  foe  his  shoulders  shrug  and  laugh; 
The  offer  to  be  friends,  and  rancour  stay. 

To-morrow  may  be  fine,  but  base  to-day. 

THE  STEUGGLE 

Eelas!  cest  V ignorance  en  colere 

’Tis  angry  ignorance,  to  pity  those 

Who  still  their  eyes  to  truth’s  bright  radiance  close; 

And,  friend,  why  care  ? Honour  with  us  we  see. 

Pity  those  rulers,  who  on  bended  knee 
Sign  the  vile  peace  which  France  doth  gripe  and 
rend; 

Let  their  insane  ingratitude  descend, 

In  history  with  your  contempt  and  mine. 

Jesus  himself  their  malice  would  malign; 

Paul  a fierce  democrat  they  would  have  named; 
And  Socrates  as  a mere  quack  defamed. 

They’re  made  so  their  blear  eyes  the  daylight  fear  — 1 
The  fault  not  theirs,  at  Naples,  Eome,  or  here. 
Throughout  — ’tis  natural  these  souls  perverse 
As  soldiers  envy  you  — as  priests  should  curse; 


750 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


The  first  being  beaten  — and  unmasked  the  last. 
The  ice  which  by  our  quays  this  winter  passed 
Pell  mell,  and  all  things  cold  and  gloomy  made, 
Yet  drifting  quickly  melted  in  the  shade, 

Was  not  more  hateful,  nor  more  vain  than  this. 
You  who  of  old  (as  heaven-sent  warriors  may) 
Freed  cities  without  armies  and  alone. 

Let  their  vile  clamours  at  your  head  be  thrown. 
What  matters  it ! — clasp  we  our  hands  anew, 

I,  the  old  Frenchman  — the  old  Boman  you. 

Let  us  go  hence  this  place,  unmeet  and  vain, 
And  let  us  each  our  lofty  cliffs  regain, 

Where,  if  we’re  hissed  — at  least  ’tis  by  the  sea : 
Come,  let  the  lightning  our  insulter  be  — 

Fury  not  base  — grief  worthy  of  the  brave  — 
True  gulfs  — and  quit  their  slaver  for  the  wave. 


MOUENING 

Charle!  Charle!  6 mon  fils! 

Charles,  Charles,  my  son!  hast  thou,  then,  quitted 
me? 

Must  all  fade,  nought  endure? 

Hast  vanished  in  that  radiance,  clear  for  thee 
But  still  for  us  obscure  ? 

My  sunset  lingers,  boy,  thy  morn  declines ! 

Sweet  mutual  love  we’ve  known; 

For  man,  alas ! plans,  dreams,  and  smiling  twines 
With  others’  souls  his  own. 

He  cries,  “ This  has  no  end ! ” pursues  his  way. 

He  soon  is  downward  bound: 

He  lives,  he  suffers;  in  his  grasp  one  day 
Mere  dust  and  ashes  found. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


751 


I’ve  wandered  twenty  years,  in  distant  lands, 

With  sore  heart  forced  to  stay: 

Why  fell  the  blow  Fate  only  understands! 

God  took  my  home  away. 

To-day  one  daughter  and  one  son  remain 
Of  all  my  goodly  show: 

Well-nigh  in  solitude  my  dark  hours  wane ; 

God  takes  my  children  now. 

Linger,  ye  two  still  left  me!  though  decays 
Our  nest,  our  hearts  remain; 

In  gloom  of  death  your  mother  silent  prays, 

I in  this  life  of  pain. 

Martyr  of  Sion!  holding  Thee  in  sight, 

Fll  drain  this  cup  of  gall. 

And  scale  with  step  resolved  that  dangerous  height, 
Which  rather  seems  a fall. 

Truth  is  sufficient  guide ; no  more  man  needs 
Than  end  so  nobly  shown. 

Mourning,  but  brave,  I march;  where  duty  leads, 

I seek  the  vast  unknown. 


WHAT  DICTATES  THE  BOOK 

Temps  affreux!  ma  pensee  est 

My  soul  seems,  in  this  frightful  season  of  time 
Thronged  by  the  monstrous  justling  the  sublime, 
A plain  given  up  to  every  wandering  tread. 
Ceaselessly  trampled  by  deeds  grand  or  dread. 
This  book  of  mine’s  dictated  day  by  day 
By  the  hour  that  roars,  then  moans  its  life  away. 


752 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


The  weeks  of  the  Awful  Year  are  hydras  dire. 
Hell-born  of  fire  to  be  consumed  by  fire; 

Onward  with  blazing  eyes  they  all  must  roll, 
Leaving  their  burning  grip  upon  my  soul; 

Upon  my  verse,  wan,  wild  for  pity  or  wrath, 

Th’  imprint  one  sees  upon  a serpent’s  path. 

Should  one  regard  my  spirit  now,  he’d  see 
Dark  signs  thereon  engraven  countlessly 
Of  all  these  days  of  horror,  doubt,  defiance. 

As  ’twere  a desert  trampled  o’er  by  lions. 

STEIKE ! 

Qui  que  vous  soyez , vous  que  je  sers  et  que  j'aime 

Whoe’er  you  are  who  suffer,  who  endure, 

You  whom  I love,  whom  I have  sought  to  cure. 
Have  pitied,  warned,  defended  many  a time  — 
You  who  struck  root  in  evil,  sown  by  crime. 
Brothers  of  mine,  down-trodden,  outcast,  lost  — 
Spurn  you  the  man  who  profits  at  your  cost ! 
Follow  the  soaring,  not  the  halting  sprite ; 

Mount  upwards,  to  the  future,  to  the  light! 

No  longer  let  yourselves  be  swayed;  resist; 

Ay,  though  he  call  him  by  what  name  he  lists, 
Besist  the  man,  whoever  he  may  be. 

Who  counsels  you  against  humanity. 

Strike!  against  famine,  against  miseries; 

Oh  that  you  knew  how  near  your  triumph  is ! 

WHO  IS  TO  BLAME? 

Tu  viens  d’incendier  la  Bibliotheque? — Oui 

You  set  the  Library  on  fire  ? “ Oh  yes, 

I lit  the  match.”  Unheard-of  wickedness ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  753 

Treason  against  yourself ! You  wretched  scamp, 
Would  you  put  out  your  own  soul’s  guiding-lamp? 
.What  you  are  burning  in  your  senseless  rage 
Is  your  own  wealth,  your  dower,  your  heritage. 

Books  ever  were  the  tyrant’s  enemy; 

Ever  took  sides  with  and  stood  up  for  thee. 

What  is  a Library?  An  act  of  faith, 

Whereby  the  spirit  of  generations  saith 
How  through  a night  yet  dark  we  hope  for  day. 

Upon  these  masterpieces  — this  array 
Of  truths  revered,  charged  with  Heaven’s  lightning- 
blast. 

This  tomb,  become  the  storehouse  of  times  past. 

On  ages  vanished,  on  primaeval  man, 

On  history  — the  story  that  began 
Long  since,  never  to  end  — the  picture-book 
Whereon  the  lisping  future  is  to  look, 

Upon  the  poets  — on  the  mine  where  lie 
Whole  Bibles  — on  the  sacred  heap,  breast-high, 
Where  Job,  where  iEschylus  and  Homer  stand. 

Thou  hurl’st,  0 villain,  an  enkindled  brand ! 

All  human  reason,  Kant,  Yoltaire,  Moliere, 

In  a smoke-wreath  thou  scatterest  on  the  air ! 

Dost  thou  forget,  books  are  what  ransom  thee  ? 
There  stands  the  Book,  high  on  the  acclivity, 

And  shines ; in  that  it  shines,  and  sheds  its  light. 

It  destroys  war,  the  scaffold,  famine,  blight ! 

It  speaks;  the  slave,  the  pariah  is  no  more! 

Open  a book  — Milton’s  or  Plato’s  lore, 

Dante  or  Shakespeare,  Corneille,  Beccarie, 

Their  mighty  inspiration  wakes  in  thee. 

Thou,  as  thou  readest,  art  amazed  to  find 
In  thine  own  self  a man,  with  the  same  mind 
That  is  in  them ; made  thoughtful,  mild  and  grave, 


754 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Thou  seest  in  the  light  these  great  ones  gave 
Thy  spirit  illumined,  as  the  cloister-gloom 
Fades  in  the  dawn ; their  lofty  grandeurs  loom 
In  thine  own  consciousness;  their  fiery  dart, 

As  it  is  planted  deeper  in  thy  heart, 

Makes  thee  more  life-full  — puts  thy  passions  by ; 
Questioned,  thy  soul  springs  up  to  make  reply; 
Good  impulses  within  thee  stir  and  grow 
To  better;  thou  feel’st  melt,  like  melting  snow. 
Thy  pride,  thy  prejudices,  all  ill  things, 

Frenzies  and  errors,  emperors  and  kings. 

For  knowledge,  first,  men’s  consciences  absorb, 
And  freedom,  second.  Look,  the  sun’s  whole  orb 
Is  thine,  and  thou  extinguishest  the  sun! 

That  thou  art  yearning  for,  by  books  is  won. 

All  consciousness  is  as  a Gordian  knot; 

Then  comes  the  Book,  and  enters  deep  in  thought, 
Loosening  the  bonds  of  truth,  by  error  tied; 

It  is  man’s  leech,  his  guardian  and  his  guide; 

His  hate  it  heals,  his  madness  takes  away. 

See  what  you  wreck,  by  your  own  act,  to-day; 
Knowledge,  truth,  virtue,  duty,  law,  reform. 
Reason  dispelling  fury,  calm  in  storm. 

Books  are  the  wealth  that  is  your  own  indeed. 
And  you  destroy  all  this? 


“But  I can’t  read.” 

OK  A BARRICADE 

Sur  une  barricade , an  milieu  des  paves 

Upon  a barricade  thrown  ’cross  the  street, 

Where  patriot’s  blood  with  felon’s  stains  one’s  feet, 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


755 


Ta’en  with  grown  men,  a lad  aged  twelve,  or  less ! 
“Were  you  among  them  — you?”  He  answered: 
“Yes” 

“ Good,”  said  the  officer,  “ when  comes  your  turn. 
You’ll  be  shot  too.” — The  lad  sees  lightnings  burn, — 
Stretched  ’neath  the  wall  his  comrades  one  by  one : 
Then  says  to  the  officer,  “ First  let  me  run 
And  take  this  watch  home  to  my  mother,  sir  ? ” 
“You  want  to  escape?” — “No,  Fll  come  back” — 
“What  fear 

These  brats  have ! Where  do  you  live  ? ” — “ By  the 
well,  below: 

Fll  return  quickly  if  you  let  me  go.” 

“ Be  off,  young  scamp ! ” Off  went  the  boy. 
“ Good  joke ! ” 

And  here  from  all  a hearty  laugh  outbroke, 

And  with  this  laugh  the  dying  mixed  their  moan. 
But  the  laugh  suddenly  ceased,  when,  paler  grown, 
’Midst  them  the  lad  appeared,  and  breathlessly 
Stood  upright  ’gainst  the  wall  with : “ Here  am  I.” 

Dull  death  was  shamed ; the  officer  said,  “ Be  free ! ” 

Child,  I know  not,  in  all  this  agony, 

Where  good  and  ill  as  with  one  blast  of  hell 
Are  blent,  thy  part,  but  this  I know  right  well, 

That  thy  young  soul’s  a hero-soul  sublime. 

Gentle  and  brave,  thou  trod’st,  despite  all  crime, 
Two  steps, — one  toward  thy  mother,  one  toward 
death. 

For  the  child’s  deeds  the  grown  man  answereth; 

No  fault  was  thine  to  march  where  others  led. 

But  glorious  aye  that  child  who  chose  instead 
Of  flight  that  lured  to  life,  love,  freedom,  May, 

The  sombre  wall  ’neath  which  slain  comrades  lay ! 
Glory  on  thy  young  brow  imprints  her  kiss. 


756 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


In  Hellas  old,  sweetheart,  thou  hadst,  I wis. 

After  some  deathless  fight  to  win  or  save. 

Been  hailed  by  comrades  bravest  of  the  brave ; — 
Hadst  smiling  in  the  holiest  ranks  been  found. 
Haply  by  HEschylean  verse  bright-crowned! 

On  brazen  disks  thy  name  had  been  engraven;  — 
One  of  those  godlike  youths  who,  'neath  blue  heaven. 
Passing  some  well  whereo’er  the  willow  droops, 
What  time  some  virgin  ’neath  her  pitcher  stoops, 
Brimmed  for  her  herds  athirst,  brings  to  her  eyes 
A long,  long  look  of  awed  yet  sweet  surmise. 


PAST  PAKTICIPLE  OF  THE  VERB  TROP- 
CHOIR 

Participe  passe  du  verie  Tropchoir 

Past  participle  of  Tropchoir  — man  fraught 
With  virtues  numberless  — whose  sum  is  nought; 
Brave,  pious  soldier,  useless  for  attack, 

Not  a bad  cannon  — but  too  apt  to  back; 

Christian,  upright,  who  two-fold  merit  has. 

Of  serving  both  his  country  — and  the  mass. 

I do  you  justice ; why,  then,  at  me  carp  ? 

You  make  on  me,  in  style  oblique  and  sharp, 
Assaults,  which,  if  on  Prussia  made,  had  told 
During  the  Prussian  siege,  and  Russian  cold. 

Being  an  old  man,  I bore  not  arms. — Contest ! 

Glad  to  be  shut  in  Paris  with  the  rest; 

And  sometimes,  while  did  shot  and  bullets  fall, 
Would  in  my  turn  mount  guard  upon  the  wall : 

Cried  “ Here ! ” — though  old  and  by  decree  of  Fate 
Useless  — yet  I not  capitulate ! 

In  your  hands  laurels  turned  to  nettles  be, 

You  make  your  only  sorties  against  me. 


■um  RY 
OF  THE  - 

I’i-MVERSiTY  C?  :LL;  T'C 


The  poems  oe  Victor  hugo 

Of  them  in  that  bad  siege  we  thought  you  slack. 

Well,  we  were  wrong  — for  me  you  kept  them  back. 
You,  who  to  cross  the  Maine  were  never  known, 

Why  fly  at  me  — since  I left  you  alone  ? 

Why  should  my  blue  cloth  coat  your  eyes  displease. 
Or  my  kepi  disturb  your  chaplet’s  ease? 

Cold,  famine,  five  long  months  we  underwent. 

And  dread  of  worse. — And  are  you  not  content  ? 
Brave,  faithful,  we  ne’er  harassed  you  at  all. 

Say,  if  you  please,  you’re  a great  general ; 

But  to  dash  through  the  gulf,  through  foes  to  break. 
To  sound  the  charge,  thro’  fire  your  hose  to  take, 
Barra,  the  subaltern,  I covet  more. 

See  Garibaldi,  from  Caprera’s  shore, 

Kleber  at  Cairo,  or  on  Venice  walls 

Manin. — Be  calm ! Great  Paris  dies  and  falls 

Because  you  lacked  not  heart  but  faith. — Alas ! 

On  you  will  history  this  sentence  pass: 

France,  thanks  to  him,  fought  with  but  half  her 
power. 

In  those  great  days,  in  strife’s  decisive  hour; 

The  land  which  wounds,  death,  foes  could  ne’er  sub* 
due. 

Marched  with  Gambetta,  halted  with  Trochu. 

THE  WATEBLOO  LION* 

Un  jour  moi  qui  ne  crains  Vapproche  d’aucun  spectre 

I went  one  day  to  Waterloo,  to  see 
The  Lion.  Spectres  do  not  frighten  me. 

I traversed  the  ravines,  reached  the  dark  field; 

It  was  the  hour  when  morning  is  revealed 


758 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Chasing  the  twilight;  once  arrived,  I went 
Straight  to  the  gloomy  hillock  monument; 

I mounted  it  in  an  indignant  mood ; 

For  glory  of  the  sword,  slaughter  and  blood, 

Causes  me  horror.  O’er  the  plain,  now  mute. 

The  monster  towered;  from  underneath  its  foot 
I gazed  upon  the  image  reared  on  high ; 

Its  immobility  defiled  the  sky ; 

This  creature,  banished  to  the  upper  air. 

In  sullen  isolation  seemed  to  bear 
Untiring  witness,  with  ferocious  joy. 

To  memories  of  insult  and  annoy. 

I climbed;  the  shadows  deepened  overhead; 

As  I approached  the  narrow  crest,  I said 
“ He  sleeps,  until  the  world  beside  is  full 
Of  slumber;  but  he  is  implacable; 

At  intervals,  as  the  night  minutes  pass, 

A hollow  roar  will  issue  from  the  brass, 

And  peasants,  hurrying  from  the  haunted  field, 

Will  doubt  if  thunder,  or  the  image,  pealed.” 

Creeping  by  inches,  I came  close  to  it. 

I looked  for  thunder,  and  I heard  — a twit. 

From  the  vast  gullet  came  a modest  note ; 

Deep  in  the  shapeless  hollow  of  its  throat 
A robin  redbreast  had  contrived  its  nest. 

The  sweet-winged  flutterer,  by  the  spring-tide  blest, 
Spurning  the  terrors  of  the  uplifted  jaw. 

Had  hatched  its  brood  within  the  monstrous  maw. 
The  tragic  mount,  upright  and  cliff-like,  stood 
Upon  the  plain,  once  red  with  all  that  blood ; 

And  as  I listened,  pale,  with  open  ear, 

I felt  the  presence  of  a spirit  near, 

Singing  of  hope,  even  in  hope’s  surcease. 

And  in  the  very  gorge  of  war,  of  peace. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


759 


TO  HIS  ORPHAN  GRANDCHILDREN 

0 Charles,  je  te  sens  pres  de  moi 

I feel  thy  presence,  Charles.  Sweet  martyr!  down 
In  earth,  where  men  decay, 

I searched,  and  see  from  cracks  which  rend  thy  tomb, 
Burst  out  pale  morning’s  ray. 

Close  linked  are  bier  and  cradle:  here  the  dead, 

To  charm  us,  live  again: 

Kneeling,  I mourn,  when  on  my  threshold  sounds 
Two  little  children’s  strain. 

George,  Jeanne,  sing  on!  George,  Jeanne,  uncon- 
scious play! 

Your  father’s  form  recall. 

Now  darkened  by  his  sombre  shade,  now  gilt 
By  beams  that  wandering  fall. 

Oh,  knowledge!  what  thy  use?  did  we  not  know 
Death  holds  no  more  the  dead; 

But  Heaven,  where,  hand  in  hand,  angel  and  star 
Smile  at  the  grave  we  dread? 

A Heaven,  which  childhood  represents  on  earth. 

Orphans,  may  God  be  nigh ! 

That  God,  who  can  your  bright  steps  turn  aside 
Prom  darkness,  where  I sigh. 

All  joy  be  yours,  though  sorrow  bows  me  down! 

To  each  his  fitting  wage: 

Children,  Fve  passed  life’s  span,  and  men  are  plagued 
By  shadows  at  that  stage. 


760 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Hath  any  done  — nay,  only  half  performed  — 

The  good  he  might  for  others? 

Hath  any  conquered  hatred,  or  had  strength 
To  treat  his  foes  like  brothers  ? 

E’en  he,  who’s  tried  his  best,  hath  evil  wrought: 
Pain  springs  from  happiness: 

My  heart  has  triumphed  in  defeat,  my  pulse 
Ne’er  quickened  at  success. 

I seemed  the  greater  when  I felt  the  blow: 

The  prick  gives  sense  of  gain; 

Since  to  make  others  bleed  my  courage  fails, 

Fd  rather  bear  the  pain. 

To  grow  is  sad,  since  evils  grow  no  less; 

Great  height  is  mark  for  all : 

The  more  I have  of  branches,  more  of  clustering 
boughs. 

The  ghastlier  shadows  fall. 

Thence  comes  my  sadness,  though  I grant  your 
charms : 

Ye  are  the  outbur sting 
Of  the  soul  in  bloom,  steeped  in  the  draughts 
Of  nature’s  boundless  spring. 

George  is  the  sapling,  set  in  mournful  soil; 

Jeanne’s  folding  petals  shroud 
A mind  which  trembles  at  our  uproar,  yet 
Half  longs  to  speak  aloud. 

Give,  then,  my  children  — lowly,  blushing  plants, 
Whom  sorrow  waits  to  seize  — 

Free  course  to  instincts,  whispering  ’mid  the  flowers, 
Like  hum  of  murmuring  bees. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


761 


Some  day  you’ll  find  that  chaos  comes,  alas ! 

That  angry  lightning’s  hurled. 

When  any  cheer  the  People,  Atlas  huge, 

Grim  bearer  of  the  world! 

You’ll  see  that,  since  our  fate  is  ruled  by  chance, 
Each  man,  unknowing,  great, 

Should  frame  life  so,  that  at  some  future  hour 
Fact  and  his  dreamings  meet. 

I,  too,  when  death  is  past,  one  day  shall  grasp 
That  end  I know  not  now; 

And  over  you  will  bend  me  down,  all  filled 
With  dawn’s  mysterious  glow. 

I’ll  learn  what  means  this  exile,  what  this  shroud 
Enveloping  your  prime; 

And  why  the  truth  and  sweetness  of  one  man 
Seem  to  all  others  crime. 

I’ll  hear  — though  midst  these  dismal  boughs  you 
sang  — 

How  came  it,  that  for  me. 

Who  every  pity  feel  for  every  woe. 

So  vast  a gloom  could  be. 

I’ll  know  why  night  relentless  holds  me,  why 
So  great  a pile  of  doom: 

Why  endless  frost  enfolds  me,  and  methinks 
My  nightly  bed’s  a tomb  : 

Why  all  these  battles,  all  these  tears,  regrets. 

And  sorrows  were  my  share; 

And  why  God’s  will  of  me  a cypress  made. 

When  roses  bright  ye  were. 


L’ART  D’ETRE  GRAND-P^RE 


1872 


L’ART  D’ETRE  GRAND-PERE 


THE  CONTENTED  EXILE 

i. 

Solitude!  silence!  oh!  le  desert  me  tente 

The  solitude  and  silence  tempt  me  forth 
To  desert  places.  There  the  soul  is  calm 
And  sternly  satisfied;  one  knows  not  there 
What  is  that  shadow  which  he  shall  illume. 

I go  into  the  forests  seeking  there 

Vague  awe;  the  tangled  thickness  of  the  boughs 

Informs  me  with  a joy  and  terror  dim; 

And  there  I find  oblivion  akin 
To  that  within  the  silence  of  the  tomb. 

But  I am  not  extinguished;  one  can  be 
A torch  in  darkness,  and  beneath  the  sky, 

Beneath  the  sacred  crypt,  alone,  remain 
To  shiver  in  the  deep  and  windy  breath 
Of  the  empyrean.  Nought  is  lost  to  man 
For  having  sounded  duty’s  depths  obscure. 

Who  looks  from  high  sees  well:  who  looks  from  far 
Sees  rightly.  Conscience  knows  a sacred  faith 
Is  possible  for  her,  and  goes  to  high 
And  lonely  places,  there  to  shine  and  grow, 

Remote  from  the  forgetful,  callous  world. 

And  therefore  I too  go  forth  to  the  waste. 

But  do  not  quit  the  world  which  I forsake. 


766 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Because  a dreamer  comes,  in  forests*  depths. 

Or  on  the  craggy  cliffs,  to  sit  and  muse 
In  silence  on  the  vastness  of  the  night ; 

He  does  not  isolate  himself  from  earth 
And  earth’s  inhabitants.  And  think  you  not 
That,  having  seen  the  throng  of  men,  one  needs 
To  flee  beneath  the  thick  and  shady  trees, 

And  that  the  thirst  for  truth,  for  peace,  for  right. 
For  justice,  and  for  light,  grows  in  the  soul, 

After  so  many  false  and  lying  things  ? 

My  brothers  have  for  ever  all  my  heart. 

And  far  from  them  in  body,  I am  near 
In  spirit,  looking  at  and  judging  fate; 

And  to  complete  the  rough-hewn  human  soul, 

I hold  above  the  people,  downward  bent. 

The  urn  of  pity ; ceaselessly  I pour, 

Yet  constantly  refill  it.  But  I take 

For  cover  the  pine  woods  — with  heavy  shades. 

Oh  I have  seen  the  wretched  crowds  so  near. 

Have  known  the  cries,  the  blows,  the  insults  heaped 
On  venerable  heads,  and  cowards  grown 
To  power  through  civil  broils,  and  judges  fit 
For  others*  judgment  only,  and  vile  priests 
Serving  God  and  defiling,  preaching  for 
And  witnessing  against  Him.  I have  seen 
The  want  of  beauty  that  our  beauty  shows ; 

The  evil  in  our  good,  and  in  our  truth 

The  falsehood,  and  have  watched  mere  nothingness 

Beneath  the  proud,  triumphal  arches  pass. 

Ah,  I have  seen  enough  him  who  corrodes, 

And  him  who  flees,  and  him  who  yields,  till  now. 
Old,  spent,  and  conquered,  I have  this  for  joy. 

To  dream  in  quietude  in  some  dark  spot. 

There  while  I bleed,  I muse ; and  if  perchance 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


767 


A god  should  offer  me  youth,  glory,  love. 

Strength,  victory  — would  I return  to  towns. 

Yet  do  I find  it  good  to  have  a lair 
Within  the  forests,  for  by  no  means  sure 
Am  I,  that  even  then  I would  consent. 

II. 

What  in  this  earth  of  ours  ? A storm  of  souls, 

In  this  gloom  where  we  wandering  pilots  reach 
No  shore  but  rocks,  mistaking  them  for  ports; 

Amid  the  tempest  of  desires,  of  cries. 

Of  transports,  loves,  vows,  sorrows, — heaps  of 
clouds, — 

The  fleeting  kisses  of  those  prostitutes 
We  call  ambition,  fortune  and  success; 

Before  the  suffering  Job^s : “ What  do  I know  ? ” 

The  trembling  PascaFs : u What  then  do  I think  ? ” 

In  this  preposterous  and  fierce  expense 
Of  popes,  of  kings,  of  Caesars,  Satan-made; 

In  presence  of  the  fate  which  turns  and  turns 
His  capstan  from  which  ever  flow  — and  hence 
The  terror  of  the  poor  philosophers  — 

The  same  waves  and  the  same  catastrophes ; 

In  this  corroding  nothingness,  and  false 
And  lying  chaos,  what  at  last  man  sees 
Clearly  is  this:  Above  our  sorrows,  falls, 

And  failures  due,  the  reign  of  innocence, 

And  sovereignty  of  innocent  things  and  pure. 

Being  given  the  human  heart,  the  human  mind, 

Our  yesterday  in  gloom,  our  morrow  dark, 

All  the  disasters,  all  the  hatreds,  wars, 

Our  progress  checked  by  heavy,  dragging  chains, 

All  round  us,  even  among  the  best,  remorse, 

And  all  the  throng  of  living  things  overwhelmed 


768 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


By  winds,  which  blow  from  out  the  skies  in  tears. 
In  truth,  ’tis  salutary  for  the  mind 
And  good,  among  the  interwoven  boughs. 

So  many  and  so  black,  to  contemplate 
Sometimes,  athwart  the  ills  which  seem  to  spread 
Betwixt  the  heavens  and  us  like  veils,  a peace 
Deep  and  profound  and  made  of  shining  stars; 

It  is  of  this  God  thought,  what  time  He  placed 
The  poets  near  the  cradles  made  for  sleep. 


TO  MY  GRANDSON 
Viens,  mon  George 

Come  hither,  George.  Ah ! sons  of  sons  of  ours 
With  childhood’s  voice  recall  lost  morning  hours. 

In  our  abodes,  dull  winter’s  darkening, 

They  scatter  roses  and  the  light  of  spring. 

Their  laughter  brings  warm  tears  to  stony  eyes. 

And  makes  cold  thresholds  thrill  with  sweet  surmise ; 
One  radiant  smile  disperses  all  the  gloom 
Of  heavy  years  that  bend  us  to  the  tomb. 

A child’s  hand  leads  us  ’mong  th’  old  vanished 
years, — 

Sweet  day  by  day,  with  new  flowers  deckt,  appears. 
Amazed,  we  wander  all  the  lost  paths  through, 

With  lighter  hearts  suffused  with  heavenlier  blue. 

A child  that  blossoms  sets  old  age  aflower; 
Grandpapa  enters  blithe  Aurora’s  bower 
With  little  ones  around  him  triumphing. 

Dwarfed  to  a child’s  small  stature,  lo!  a wing 
Grows,  and  we  watch,  with  sense  of  sweet  surprise, 
’Mong  spotless  souls,  our  dark  soul  seek  the  skies. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


769 


GEOEGE  AND  JEANNE 

Moi  qu'un  petit  enfant  rend  tout  d fait  stupide 

I,  whom  a little  child  makes  far  from  wise. 

Have  two, — sweet  George  and  J eanne ; in  this  one’s 
eyes 

My  sunlight  dwells,  by  this  one’s  hand  I’m  led ; 
Jeanne’s  but  ten  months,  o’er  George  two  years  have 
sped. 

Divinely  subtle  are  their  baby-ways, 

And  from  their  trembling  utterance  love  essays 
To  catch  the  birth-star  song  ere  it  take  flight ; 

While  I — like  even  darkening  into  night, 

Whose  destiny  hath  lost  the  light  of  day  — 

Take  heart  to  sing : “ What  dawn  so  fair  as  they ! ” 
New  heavens  are  opened  wide  at  each  child- word; 

My  soul’s  intent  to  hear  what  they  have  heard; 

Old  thoughts  are  banished  by  the  sweet  new  thought. 
Desires,  ambitions,  projects,  things  of  nought. 
Matters  of  weighty  moment,  fade  away 
As  grows  the  sunlight  of  my  darlings’  day; 

All  birds  that  brood  in  darkness  ply  swift  wings 
As  all  the  choir  of  morn  more  blithely  sings. 

Ah!  tottering  children  guide  one’s  steps  aright. 
Behold  them!  hear  them;  every  brow  grows  bright, 
All  hearts  beat  happily  that  near  them  beat 
In  chime  with  baby-counsels  sacred,  sweet. 

In  all  my  life  they’re  merged ; in  smiles  or  tears, 

In  all  my  sorrowful  or  joyous  years, 

Nought  have  I known  so  precious  as  the  sense 
Of  smiles  of  childhood  cleaving  darkness  dense, 

Or  brightening  common  sunlight:  I behold 
From  baby’s  cradle  steal  these  rays  of  gold. 


770 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


At  eve  I watch  them  slumbering.  .Sweet  shut  eyes 
And  placid  brows  overshadowed  like  the  skies, 

When  through  soft  veils  the  starry  lights  first  beam, 
Amaze  me,  murmuring : “ What  can  be  their 
dream  ? ” 

George  dreams  of  cakes,  perchance,  of  playthings  fine. 
Dog,  cock,  or  cat;  Jeanne  chats  with  friends  divine; 
Then  their  eyes  open  wide,  and  make  the  whole  world 
shine. 

Their  dawn,  alas ! marks  growth  of  our  decline. 

They  prattle.  Do  they  talk  ? As  doth  the  flower 
To  the  wood-brooklet;  as,  in  childhood’s  hour. 

Their  father  to  his  sister,  laughing  gay; 

Or  as  I chattered  all  the  livelong  day 
Unto  my  brothers,  while  our  sire  stood  near 
And  watched  us  gambol  in  the  sunlight  clear 
Of  Rome,  in  days  long  dead  which  never  die. 

Jeanne,  whose  bright  eyes  all  bluest  flowers  outlive, 
Whose  fingers  frail  still  capture  faery  things, 

With  bare  arms  fluttering  like  an  angel’s  wings, 
Harangues,  in  songs  where  floats  a starry  sign, 
George,  a boy-babe  or  baby-god  divine. 

0 bluest  heaven,  no  mortal  speech  is  hers ! 

In  such  sweet  strains  the  wandering  wind  confers 
With  fragrant  groves,  with  waves  on  summer  seas; 
Grey  pilots  off  the  shores  of  ancient  Greece 
Erst  left  their  helms,  thus  lured  by  syren’s  voice 
To  sorrow,  as  Jeanne  now  lures  us  to  rejoice. 

*Tis  May-month  music  born  beneath  the  sun’s 
Bright  glance,  with  changeful  burthen,  “ I love ! ” 
“ loved  once ! ” 

It  is  the  tremulous  language  filled  with  light 
Which  lisps  to  life  each  little  child’s  delight, — 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


771 


Beguiled  by  April,  vast,  bewildering, 

They  babble  at  vast  windows  of  the  Spring. 

These  strange  sweet  notes  which  J eanne  pipes  to  her 
brother 

Are  those  one  amorous  bird  trills  to  another ; 

Such  subtle  questions  bees  to  flowers  propound. 

And  simple  flowers  to  sparrows  more  profound; 

Of  spheral  harmonies  soft  undersong 
It  is,  and  doth  the  angelic  choir  prolong; 
Heaven’s  visions  are  revealed  in  infant-strains ; 
Heaven’s  mystery,  perchance,  Jeanne’s  song  ex- 
plains,— 

For  little  ones  but  yesterday  came  thence. 

Bearing  star-secrets  through  our  darkness  dense. 

0 George!  0 Jeanne!  your  voices  thrill  my  heart! 

In  such  a song  stars  only  could  take  part. 

Their  eyes  upon  me  light  my  whole  soul  through. 
And  all  its  darkness  breaks  to  heavenly  blue. 

Jeanne  smiles  bewildered;  George  has  bold  bright 
eyes; 

Both  totter, — inebriate  pets  from  Paradise! 

LH3TITIA  RERUM 

Tout  est  pris  (Tun  frisson  subit 

All  nature  thrills  with  joyfulness, 

The  winter  flies,  and  hides  away, 

The  year  throws  off  its  faded  dress. 

The  earth  puts  on  its  best  array. 

Now  all  things  new  and  stirring  are, 

Youth  wantons  bright  in  every  place. 

Love’s  beauty-season  everywhere 
Is  mirrored  in  the  fountain’s  face. 


773 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Trees  look  their  best  — All  flowers  anew. 
Try  which  shall  greatest  charms  reveal. 

Each  decks  itself  in  fairest  hue  — 

The  ugliest  e’en  are  full  of  zeal. 

Nosegays  sprout  from  the  mountain  side. 
Light  leaves  from  breezes,  kisses  take; 

June  laughs  to  see  so  Sunday-fied 
The  common  people  of  the  brake. 

Yes,  ’tis  an  universal  fete, 

Thistles,  those  rustics,  join  the  cheer. 

In  summer’s  palace,  fine  and  great 
The  stars  light  up  the  chandelier. 

Grass  now  is  cut  — soon  comes  the  corn. 
The  mower  sleeps  beneath  the  May, 

And  upon  every  breeze  is  borne 
The  fragrance  of  the  new-made  hay. 

Who  sings  ? The  minstrel  of  the  night ! 
The  chrysalis  no  more  is  found; 

The  grub  is  winged,  and  takes  to  flight, 
Casting  his  fetters  to  the  ground. 

The  water  spider  swims  his  round, 

Shady  the  vines,  the  skies  are  clear. 

Day  trembles,  gnats  with  buzzing  sound 
Pursue  and  whisper  in  your  ear. 

The  bee  flits  on  from  bloom  to  bloom. 
Hornets  and  wasps  are  on  the  wing; 

To  all  these  tipplers  of  perfume 
A tap  is  opened  by  the  spring. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


773 


Enters  — his  shirt  in  crumpled  plight  — 

The  drone  who  lives  to  sleep  and  dine; 

A Lily  is  a napkin  white, 

A Pink  a breaker  brimmed  with  wine. 

Flies  drink  the  red  and  gold  that  lie 
Within  the  blooms  that  half  expand; 

The  drunkard  is  the  butterfly, 

Roses  the  taverns  close  at  hand. 

Full  are  they  of  ecstatic  glee, 

Tipplers  true  liberty  possess; 

Writ  on  no  flower  do  you  see 
“ This  is  the  home  of  soberness.” 

The  providential  luxury 

Sparkles  and  shines  with  lavish  store. 

That  unique,  priceless  book  the  sky 
Is  by  the  morning  gilded  o’er. 

Children,  within  your  glances  bright, 

I think  the  opening  heaven  to  see; 

Your  laugh  is  like  the  Spring’s  delight. 

Your  tears  are  as  the  dawn  to  me. 

WINDOWS  OPEN  IN  GUERNSEY 

J’entends  des  voix.  Lueurs  a travers  a paupiere 

Voices. — A gleam  across  my  half-shut  eyes. — 

Bells  ringing  at  St.  Peter’s. — Bathers’  cries : 

“ Come  here,  I tell  you ! ” “ No,  come  farther  on! 99 
“No,  it  was  here.”  “No,  it  was  there.”  “It’s 
gone ! ” 

The  birds  are  chattering,  and  Jeannie  too : 


774 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


George  calling  her. — That  was  a cock  that  crew. — 
A brick,  chipped  by  a trowel. — Horses  pass 
Along  the  alley. — A scythe  cutting  grass. — 

Bangs. — Buzzings. — Workmen  walking  on  the 
tiles. — 

A military  band,  half-heard  at  whiles. — 

Noises  in  port. — A row  upon  the  quay. — 

A kettle  boiling. — Talk  in  French : “ Merci ! ” 

“ Bon  jour ! ” “ Adieu ! ” No  doubt  it  must  be  late. 

For  here’s  my  redbreast  singing  at  the  gate. — 

The  din  of  hammers  in  a forge  remote. — 

Water  poured  out. — Pant  of  a packet-boat. — 

Enter  a fly. — To  all  one  deep  aside. 

The  infinite  suspiration  of  the  tide. 


THE  MISSING  ONE 

Pourquoi  done  s’en  est-il  alle,  le  doux  amour? 

Sweet  love,  ah  wherefore  hast  thou  flown  away  ? 
They  come  an  instant,  shed  a little  day, 

And  pass.  These  darlings,  whom  we  call  our  own. 
Have  other  owners  — are  not  ours  alone. 

— Are  there  not  other  twain,  then,  left  to  you. 

Old  man  ? — Oh  yes,  I see  them ; there  are  two ; 
There  might  have  been  a third. — It  is  the  hour 
To  seek  the  paths  the  hanging  woods  embower. 
Swarming  with  birds,  whose  number  God  alone 
Knows  — who  must  vanish  to  the  vast  unknown. 
They  also. — Let  me  take  them  for  a ride. 

White  hat,  and  little  barefoot,  side  by  side: 

I’ll  push  the  carriage. — Cloudless  are  the  skies ; 

The  flowering  fields  resemble  paradise; 

The  lizard  flashes  o’er  the  willow’s  root; 

O’erhead  the  redbreast  is  no  longer  mute. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  775 

Joan  is  not  two  years  old,  and  George  scarce  three; 
So  he  takes  charge  of  her ; a grown  man  he ; 

All  little  girls  like  her  are  his  delight ; 

He  stands  in  admiration  at  the  sight 
Of  those  sweet  rosy  fingers;  he  compares. 

Giving  himself  all  sorts  of  manly  airs. 

The  great  hands  with  the  small  ones,  his  with  hers, 
And  shows  her  off  before  the  passengers, 

And  bursts  out  laughing.  He  can  toddle,  he ! 

This  mite  can  get  about ! J oan  laughs,  to  see 
George  laughing;  in  her  basket  little  Joan 
Is  very  like  a queen  upon  her  throne; 

She  is  lovely : so  the  oak-tree  whispers  low 
To  the  horse-chestnut,  and  the  elm-trees  show 
Her  beauty  to  the  maples ; such  the  due 
Of  infancy,  beneath  this  vault  of  blue. 

George  knows  his  size ; he  laughs,  but  he  protects. 

And  Joan  relies  upon  his  intellects. 

George  criticizes  with  an  air  severe 

This  child  — who  sucks  her  thumb  at  times,  I fear. 

How  full  the  boskage  is,  of  butterflies ! 

George  says  “Let  me  get  down wants  exercise ; 

We  lisp,  we  skip  together,  I and  they; 

The  paths  are  winding,  and  we  lose  our  way. 

How  charming  is  their  pleasure!  How  they  sing 
Carols  of  praise,  through  all  their  chattering! 

Joan  covets  every  passing  bird  and  moth; 

George  gets  his  dolly  out,  and  rips  the  cloth. 

And  ponders;  and  both  talk;  and  their  glad  cries 
People  the  solitude  with  watching  eyes. 

George,  as  he  eats  a medlar  or  a pear. 

Brings  me  his  toy:  and  I,  who  am  aware, 

Better  than  George,  what  men  are  made  of,  and 
The  secrets  of  creation  understand, 

Sew  the  rent  up,  and  the  old  puppet  vamp. 


776  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

u Don’t  go  upon  the  grass,  George ; it  is  damp.” 

The  doll  by  J oan,  the  branches  by  the  breeze 
Are  nursed  to  sleep.  Under  the  solemn  trees 
We  feel  God  present ; their  calm  influence 
Blends  with  the  happiness  of  innocence ; 

George  gives  his  orders;  Joan  and  I obey; 

The  nursemaid  sings  them  an  old  Norman  lay, 
Such  as  one  hears  at  night  in  northern  lands ; 
George  with  his  feet  keeps  time;  Joan  claps  her 
hands. 

And  my  heart  swells  at  their  sweet  revelries. 

I am  smiling;  but  you  saw  my  tears,  old  trees! 

You  will  not  think  that  I can  e’er  forget 
That  little  one,  whose  sun  of  life  is  set ! 


THE  SIESTA 

File  fait  au  milieu  du  jour  son  petit  somme 

Safe  sheltered  from  the  noon-tide  glare. 

And  noises  of  the  busy  day, 

There  sleeps,  serene  and  free  from  care, 

Jeanette,  my  child,  tired  out  with  play. 

They,  more  than  we,  the  dreamland  need, 

Those  children  fresh  from  Heaven’s  own  smile; 
The  world  is  cold  and  bleak  indeed 
Eor  gentle  hearts  that  know  no  guile. 

She  seeks  the  angels  and  the  fays, 

Titania,  Puck,  and  Ariel  too; 

With  cherubs  she  in  fancy  plays 
’Mid  sylvan  groves  and  skies  of  blue. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  777 

0,  great  our  wonder  could  we  know 
The  hidden  joys  of  that  blest  sleep; 

What  dazzling  sights,  what  visions  glow, 

While  watch  her  guardian  angels  keep! 

Thus  at  the  still  meridian  hour 

When  birds  are  mute  and  winds  are  stayed, 

When  e’en  each  fragile  leaf  and  flower 
Forgets  to  tremble  in  the  glade, 

Jeanette  takes  her  siesta,  then, 

And  her  mamma  can  also  rest. 

For  nature  wearies  even  when 

We’re  helping  those  we  love  the  best. 

These  tiny  feet  of  roseate  hue 

Are  resting  like  the  peaceful  soul; 

The  cradle  lace  of  azure  blue 
Seems  an  immortal’s  aureole. 

There  looks  to  my  enraptured  sight 
A rosy  light  amidst  the  folds. 

I laugh,  and  sadness  takes  its  flight ; 

A radiant  star  that  cradle  holds. 

The  cooling  shadows  round  her  creep, 

The  wind  holds  back  and  dares  not  blow; 

When  suddenly  from  out  her  sleep 
Her  eyes  re-ope  with  morn-like  glow. 

Her  lovely  arms  she  first  extends, 

Then  foot  and  foot  with  charming  grace. 

And  now  her  mother  o’er  her  bends, 

And  gazes  on  her  darling’s  face. 


778 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


She  thinks  of  all  the  sweetest  names 
To  call  her  for  her  own  dear  sake. 

And  then  ’twixt  smiles  and  tears  exclaims, 
“ You  horror ! there  you  are  awake ! ” 


THE  MOON 

i. 

Jeanne  songeait , sur  Vherbe  assise 

Couched  ’mong  the  grass,  with  bright,  grave  brow 
Jeanne  thought; 

I came  quite  close : “ Jeanne,  tell  me,  is  there  aught 

You  want  ? ” — for  I obey  these  charming  dears, — 
Submissive  slaves  of  all  their  smiles  or  tears, 
Diviner  of  thoughts  that  pass  through  heads  divine. 
Jeanne  answered  me : “ To  see  some  beasts,  I pine.” 

An  ant  just  then  appeared  ’mong  grasses  tall ; 

“ Look,  look ! ” I cried.  But  Jeanne  scarce  looked  at 
all: 

“ No,  no ! the  beasts  are  always  big.” 

Their  dream 

Is  grandeur.  Ocean  with  his  boundless  stream 
Allures  them,  cradled  by  the  conquering  might 
Of  waves  and  winds  that  roar  in  endless  flight. 

They  need  the  wondrous,  love  the  world’s  worst  dread. 
“ I grieve  no  elephant’s  at  hand,”  I said ; 

“ But  is  there  nothing  else  which  I can  get  ? ” 

With  tiny  finger  skyward  fixed,  my  pet 
Cried,  “ That ! ” — The  calm  hour  ’twas  when  day- 
light dies, 

And  in  hushed  heaven  I saw  the  full  moon  rise. 


THE  POEMS  OE  VICTOR  HUGO 


m 


ii. 

You  want  the  moon  ? Yes ; draw  it  from  the  well : — 
No;  from  the  sky!  Alack,  all  efforts  fail. 

’Tis  always  thus.  Dear  little  ones,  you  crave 
A toy  from  heaven,  so  in  void  air  I wave  „ 

My  hands  to  catch  fair  Phoebe  in  her  flight. 

The  blessed  lot  of  grandsire  once  fell  light 
Upon  my  head  and  made  a gentle  crack. 

Though  fate  such  brilliant  toys  from  me  held  back. 
Towards  you  I feel  he  should  be  far  more  kind. 
But  come,  let’s  reason.  George  and  Jeanne  now 
mind! 

God  watches  us,  and  being  Himself  a true 
Old  grandpapa,  He  knows  what  one  dare  do. 

And  takes  good  care  to  be  upon  His  guard. 

A grand-dad  loves  his  pets,  and  thinks  it  hard 
All  baby-orders  he  cannot  obey: 

So,  lest  a silly  old  man  should  have  his  way, 

God  takes  the  stars,  not  yet  to  cradles  given, 

And  hangs  them  on  the  highest  hooks  of  heaven. 

ill. 

“ What  greedy  little  rascals ! 99  mother  cries ; 

“ They  long  for  all  that  meets  their  roving  eyes, — 
Cakes,  cherries,  apples,  all  must  pleasure  yield. 

If  they  but  hear  a cow  low  in  a field, 

’Tis,  ‘ Quick ! some  milk ! 9 They  raise  banditti’s 
cries 

If  bags  of  bon-bons  look  a likely  prize; 

And  now  they’d  have  the  moon ! ” 

Why  not  ? I hate 
The  pettiness  of  those  miscalled  the  great, 

And  love,  amazed,  the  grandeur  of  the  small. 


780 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Ah,  yes ! an  infant* s soul  expands  for  all. 

I’m  lost  in  thought  before  such  greed  as  sees 
Worlds  shadow-girt,  and  stammers:  “If  you 

please ! ” 

If  it  were  mine  to  give,  indeed,  yon  moon 
Should  in  a moment  be  my  pet’s  bright  boon. 

I know  not  what  they’d  make  of  thee,  ’tis  true. 

But  yet,  0,  moon,  I feel  thou  art  their  due. 

Thy  heaven  where  Swedenborg  still  travels  on, 

Thy  vast  abyss  with  all  its  mystery  wan, 

I would  entrust  unto  the  children’s  care. 

That  sombre  sphere  still  spinning  through  thin  air, 
With  jagged  craters  no  loud  storm  assails, 

With  solitudes  of  shadow  and  death,  with  vales 
Blissful  as  Edens  or  like  hells  accursed, 

And  awful  mountain-vistas  light-immersed, 
Methinks  yon  little  kneeling  ones  would  make 
A holier  place  of  for  the  angels’  sake: 

In  it  they’d  place  their  love,  their  hope,  their  prayer. 
And  the  vast  weird  adventuress  should  bear 
To  God  profound  the  thoughts  of  sweet  small  hearts. 
When  the  child  slumbers  dream  by  dream  departs 
To  holier  realms  than  ours  can  ever  reach. 

A new  child-faith  unto  the  world  I preach : 

If  little  fearless  darlings  set  their  love 
On  something  sparkling  bright  in  heaven  above, 

I feel  they  ought  to  have  it.  That  a sphere 
Should  be  ruled  over  by  a child  is  clear. 

Ev’n  our  demerit  masters  many  things. 

Oh!  what  a lesson  to  astonished  kings, 

Seeing  a world  by  infant-hands  controlled! 

To  little  angels  crowned  with  locks  of  gold, 

To  them  who’d  blithely  reign  by  love’s  sole  sway, 

I’d  give  vast  worlds  immersed  in  wondrous  day; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


781 


Those,  too,  by  darkling  spirits  blindly  led, — 

The  enormous  circle  of  the  planets  dread. 

Why  not  ? To  them  who  have  no  thought  of  ill 
The  power  is  given  to  wield  a world  at  will. 

Yes ! often  when  my  thought  gets  free  of  earth. 
Musing  on  innocent  love’s  transcendent  worth, 

I deem  there  must  be,  in  some  heaven  unknown, 
Some  angel  grander  than  our  dreams  have  shown, 
Bidden  by  God,  in  some  supreme  sweet  hour. 

On  souls  of  children  gifts  of  stars  to  shower. 


EVENING 

Le  irouillard  est  froid 

Cold  is  the  fog,  and  the  grey  mists  rise. 

And  the  herds  of  oxen  to  water  go. 

Black  clouds  the  pale  wan  moon  peeps 
through. 

And  seems  to  light  you,  as  by  surprise. 

When  ’twas  or  where  I no  longer  know 
Old  Ivon  used  in  his  pipes  to  blow. 

The  traveller  walks,  dark  heaths  between, 

Dark  shade  to  left  and  dark  shade  to  right, 
Pale  is  the  west,  and  the  east  is  light, 

Here  twilight,  and  there  the  moon  is  seen. 

When  Twas  or  where  I no  longer  know 
Old  Ivon  used  in  his  pipes  to  blow. 

The  witch  squats  down,  and  her  lip  sticks  up, 

To  the  ceiling  the  spider  has  fixed  its  net, 

The  goblin  is  in  the  marsh  fire  set 
Like  a pistil  of  gold,  in  a tulip’s  cup. 


782 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


When  Twas  or  where  I no  longer  know 
Old  Ivon  used  in  his  pipes  to  blow. 

On  the  hungry  billow  the  lugger  flies, 

And  shipwreck  watches  the  mast  alway; 

The  wind  says  “ to-morrow” — the  sea  “to- 
day,” 

The  voices  you  hear  are  despairing  cries. 

When  Twas  or  where  I no  longer  know 
Old  Ivon  used  in  his  pipes  to  blow. 

The  coach  from  Avranches  goes  to  Fougere, 
Cracking  its  whip  like  a lightning  flash. 

Now  is  the  hour,  when  rave  and  clash, 
Wondrous  sounds  in  the  murky  air. 

When  Twas  or  where  I no  longer  know 
Old  Ivon  used  in  his  pipes  to  blow. 

In  the  deep  thick  woods  flare  brilliant  lights, 

The  old  graveyard  is  a-top  of  the  hill; 
Whence  does  God  find  all  the  black  to  fill 
The  broken  hearts,  and  the  sleepless  nights  ? 

When  Twas  or  where  I no  longer  know 
Old  Ivon  used  in  his  pipes  to  blow. 

Silvery  pools  quiver  over  the  sand, 

The  sea  hawk  sits  on  the  chalk  cliff  high. 

The  herdsman  follows,  with  awe  struck  eye, 
The  flight  of  devils  o’er  sea  and  land. 

When  Twas  or  where  I no  longer  know 
Old  Ivon  used  in  his  pipes  to  blow. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


783 


From  the  chimney  pot  rises  a long  grey  flag, 

The  woodcutter  plods  with  his  load  of  wood, 
You  hear,  hnid  the  rush  of  the  mountain 
flood. 

The  crash  of  the  boughs  which  the  torrents  drag. 

When  Twas  or  where  I no  longer  know 
Old  Ivon  used  in  his  pipes  to  blow. 

The  starved  wolf  dreams  he  the  sheepfold  seeks. 
The  rivers  speed,  and  the  dark  clouds  flit. 

And  behind  the  pane,  where  the  lamp  is  lit, 
Dear  little  children  have  rosy  cheeks. 

When  Twas  or  where  I no  longer  know 
Old  Ivon  used  in  his  pipes  to  blow. 


THE  ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS  — PUBLIC 
OPINION 

Les  lions , cest  des  loups . — C’est  tres  mechant  les  hetes 
Five  years  old.  Lions  are  wolfs. 

Six  years  old.  Wild  beasts  are  nasty  things. 

Five  years  old.  Yes. 

Six  years  old.  Little  birds  look  horrid,  with  their 
wings. 

They  are  dirty. 

Five  years  old.  Yes. 

Six  years  old.  The  serpents! 


784 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Five  tears  old.  Made  of  skin. 

Six  years  old.  That  monkey  — mind!  He’ll  pull 
your  bonnet  in. 

Five  tears  old  ( looking  at  the  tiger). 

Another  wolf! 

Six  years  old.  Do  come  and  see  the  bears 
Going  to  bed. 

Five  tears  old.  Pretty! 

Six  years  old.  It  climbs  up  stairs. 

Five  tears  old  ( loolcing  at  the  elephant). 

Its  horns  are  in  its  mouth. 

Six  years  old.  What  I like  best 

Is  elephants ; they  are  the  enormousest. 

Seven  years  old  ( coming  and  tearing  them  away 
from  contemplation  of  the  elephant). 

0 come  away,  come  quick;  do  you  suppose 
He  does  not  want  to  beat  you,  with  his  nose? 


TO  GEORGE 

Mon  doux  Georges,  viens  voir  une  menagerie 

My  George,  to  some  Menagerie  come  on, 

Buffon  or  Circus,  anywhere  will  do: 

Still  in  Lutetia  visit  Babylon, 

And  without  leaving  Paris, — Timbuctoo. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


785 


Those  Leopards  see,  that  were  from  Tyre  ta’en, 

The  growling  Bear,  the  Boa’s  silent  might ; 

Zebra,  Ounce,  Jackal,  and  those  poets  twain, 

The  sun-drunk  Eagle  — Vulture  filled  with  night. 

The  wily  Lynx,  the  Snake  that  both  ways  rolls. 

To  which  his  treacherous  friend  Job  likens  well, 

Black  Tigers,  through  whose  ebon  mask  two  holes 
Of  livid  flame  disclose  the  fires  of  hell. 

To  see  wild  birds  — the  shiver  of  their  wings  — 

Is  nice ; we’ll  view,  while  safe  as  bars  can  make, 

Wolves,  Jaguars,  and  Gazelles,  slim  graceful  things, 
And  mark  the  beauty  of  the  painted  snake. 

Leave  noise  of  men.  Come  to  the  animals. 

Let’s  lean  athwart  the  stifling  shade  around. 

O’er  lower  griefs,  and  vague  reproachful  calls, 

O’er  tangled  steps  of  mysteries  profound. 

For  beasts  are  shade,  in  darkness  wandering 
You  know  not  what  they  hear,  what  understand ; 

Haggard  their  cries,  their  eyes  death-glances  fling, 
Yet  their  assertion  is  sublime  and  grand. 

We,  who  here  reign,  what  useless  things  we  say 
And  know  not  of  the  evil  which  we  do; 

Truth  comes,  we  drive  it  as  a foe  away, 

And  against  reason,  reasons  have  to  show. 

Corbiere  at  bar  — Frayssinous  in  the  church 
I much  inferior  to  wild  beasts  conceive ; 

The  soul,  in  forest,  learns,  without  a search  — 

I doubt  in  temples,  on  the  mount  believe. 


786 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


God  darkly  names  Himself  by  Night’s  dim  word; 

Wild  Pelion  than  Quirinal  awes  us  more; 

*Tis  well,  when  we  the  talk  of  men  have  heard. 
To  go  and  hear  the  mighty  Lion  roar. 


TO  JEANNE 

Je  ne  te  cache  pas  que  j’aime  aussi  les  betes 

That  I too  like  the  beasts  I freely  own ; 

You  they  amuse,  and  me  they  teach ; I feel 
That  not  for  nought  in  those  fierce  heads  is  shown 
By  God  the  mystic  gloom  that  woods  reveal. 

Curious,  and  born  to  pity  and  believe, 

To  ask  (watching  the  asp  crawl  ’neath  the  rose) 
Why  woman  fears  that  Satan  will  deceive : 

While  flowers  fear  not  the  snakes  however  close. 

While  we  impose  commandments  on  the  earth 
Kings  copying  apes,  who  deeds  of  Kings  repeat, 
Doubtful  which  race  gave  to  the  other  birth  — 

— Below  in  fated  dread  beneath  our  feet, 

A dim  strange  world  with  wonder  sees  us  now 
And  dreams  — beneath  a yoke  too  often  vile 
The  lowly  monster,  and  wan  brute  we  bow. 

Deeming  us  Gods,  though  we  are  fiends  the  while. 

0 tragic  unions!  Laws  past  fathoming! 

Know  we  the  final  word?  see  we  the  end? 

What  hideous  spectre  may  from  Venus  spring? 

What  Angel  from  Behemoth  may  descend? 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  787 

Gulf!  Height!  Transfiguration!  Mystery! 

The  soul  shall  cast  that  rag,  the  body  by! 

The  creature  abject  now  sublime  shall  be. 

The  hated  grub  the  much  loved  butterfly. 

HOW  TERRIBLE  THE  FACE  OF  BRUTES 

La  face  de  la  bete  est  terrible 

How  terrible  the  face  of  Brutes!  The  Unknown 
We  feel,  th*  Eternal  problem  darkly  shown. 
Unfathomed,  which  we  Nature  designate: 

We  gaze  on  shapeless  shadow,  chance  or  fate, 
Rebellion,  slavery,  the  hated  yoke, 

When  in  the  Lion^s  dreadful  face  we  look. 

The  Monster  stormy,  hoarse,  wild  — but  not  free— • 
Stupor ! What  means  that  strange  complexity, 
Splendour  and  horror  mixed,  the  Universe 
Contending  good  and  ill,  blessing  and  curse; 

Where  stars,  that  brilliant  livid  swarm,  we  trace 
Seeming  in  prison  ta’en,  fleeing  through  space, 
Tossed  out  at  hazard  as  we  toss  a die. 

For  ever  chained,  yet  seeking  liberty  ? 

What  is  that  marvel,  heavenly,  horrible, 

Where,  in  the  Eden  seen,  we  guess  a Hell  ? — 

Where  hopes  betrayed  — dread  thought!  sink  out  of 
sight. 

Infinite  suns,  in  night  as  infinite; 

Where  in  the  brute,  of  God  is  lost  the  trace? 

When  they  behold  the  Monster  face  to  face. 

The  Seers,  rapt  dreamers  of  the  forest  drear, 

Wise  prophets  who  mysterious  voices  hear, 

Feel  somewhat  in  the  brute  immense  and  dread. 

For  them  the  bitter  grin  of  that  dark  head 


788 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Is  the  abyss,  which  shuns  their  scrutiny, 

Th’  Eternal  secret  which  can  brook  no  spy. 

Which  lets  not  in  its  mystery  intrude 
Those  deep,  pale  thinkers  of  the  solitude; 

Men  to  whom  darkness  lays  its  secrets  bare 
Feel  the  Sphinx  angry  grow,  and  stands  their  hair 
On  end  — - their  blood  within  their  veins  runs  dry 
Before  the  frown  of  the  dark  prodigy. 


JEANNE  ASLEEP 

Elle  dort ; ses  beaux  yeux  se  rouvriront  demain 

She  sleeps!  her  eyes  will  soon  expand  again. — 
My  finger  which  she  holds  fills  all  her  hand. 

I read,  while  that  nought  wakes  her  I take  care. 
The  pious  journals ! — All  insult  me  there. 

One  treats  as  madmen  all  who  read  my  lines, 
One  to  the  hangman  all  my  works  assigns. 
Another,  while  a tear  bedews  his  lids, 

Kindly  the  passers-by  to  stone  me  bids. 

My  writings  all  are  vile  and  poisoning, 

Where  all  black  snakes  of  ill  their  spirals  wring ; 
One  credits  hell,  and  me  its  priest  declares, 

Or  Antichrist,  or  Satan,  and  one  fears 
At  eve  to  meet  me  on  the  forest’s  brink. 

One  hands  me  hemlock,  cries  another  “ Drink ! ” 

I sacked  the  Louvre  — the  hostages  I killed, 

And  fancied  mobs  with  lust  of  plunder  filled; 
Paris  in  flames  with  red  my  brow  should  dye. 

I’m  cut-throat,  butcher,  thug,  incendiary, 

Miser  — and  should  have  been  less  fierce  and  base 
Had  but  the  Emperor  given  me  a place ; 

I’m  general  poisoner  and  murderer. 

Thus  all  these  Voices  I around  me  hear 


THE  POEMS  OP  VICTOR  HUGO 


789 


Heap  insult  on  me  without  stint  or  stay. 

The  child  sleeps  on  as  if  its  dream  would  say 
“ 0 father ! yet  be  quiet,  yet  benign  — ■” 

I feel  her  hand  is  gently  pressing  mine. 


CEADLE  SONG 

Je  veille.  Ne  crains  rien.  J’ attends  que  tu  t’endormes 

Fear  nothing;  I am  watching  till  thou  sleepest. 
Nought  shall  harm  thee; 

The  angels  will  be  coming  soon,  to  kiss  thy  lids  to 
rest 

I would  that  no  ill  vision  should  approach  thee,  to 
alarm  thee 

Or  molest. 

X would  that  finding  thee  asleep,  with  thy  hand 
clasped  in  mine,  dear. 

The  wind  should  change  its  note  of  storm  to  notes 
of  lutes,  the  while; 

And  that  the  frown  of  midnight  o’er  thy  slumbers 
should  decline,  dear. 

To  a smile. 

It  is  a poet  leans  beside  thy  curtains,  as  they  tremble ; 

He  speaks  to  them,  to  them  he  whispers  many  a 
tender  thing ; 

A poet  is  thy  lover,  and  his  lullabies  resemble 

Flowers  in  spring. 

He  is  as  April’s  fragrance  on  the  turf,  when  May  is 
coming ; 

As  May  herself,  whose  blooms  the  linnets  rifle,  as 
they  please; 


790 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


His  accents  are  a murmur  of  the  spirit,  like  the  hum- 
ming 


Of  the  bees. 


He  is  the  kindly  sower  of  the  seeds  of  mirth  and 
lightness ; 

But  if  the  banded  monarchs  and  their  liveried 
swarms  invade, 

If  he  behold  the  eyeballs  of  the  tiger,  darting  bright- 
ness 

Through  the  shade, 

If  he  see  Rome,  the  basilisk  — if  Loyola,  the 
spider  — 

Bismarck,  the  vulture  — doing  aught,  after  their 
kind,  amiss. 

He  groans,  and  opens  in  his  verse,  deep  as  the  grave 
and  wider. 

An  abyss. 

Enough,  no  more  of  cradle-songs;  the  future  these 
inherit, 

The  people  and  the  rights  of  man  — the  monarch 
and  his  state. 

Is  as  a driven  whirlwind  in  the  storm,  whereon  his 
spirit 

Rides  elate. 


Welcome  him,  France!  Bethink  thee  of  thy  former 
pride  of  story; 

He  comes  for  thy  deliverance,  with  the  angel  of  the 
Lord, 

The  spirit  of  freedom  in  his  heart,  and  in  his  eyes 
the  glory 


Of  the  sword. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


791 


And  his  weak  thoughts,  erst  tossing  like  the  prows 
upon  the  ocean, 

Eeeling  as  in  the  battle-shock  a tattered  ensign 
reels. 

Mount  like  the  car  of  morning,  with  the  pinions  of 
devotion 

On  their  wheels. 

THE  CICATRIX 

Une  croute  assez  laide  est  sur  la  cicatrice 

An  ugly  cicatrix  was  crusted  o’er; 

’Twas  Jeanne’s  delight  to  pick  and  bleed  the  sore. 
She  comes  and  shows  her  hand  in  piteous  case, 

And  says  “ I’ve  pulled  the  skin  from  off  the  place.” 
I scold ! she  cries ; but  when  her  tears  I see, 

I’m  done ! “ I yield ; come,  make  it  up  with  me, 
Jeanne ! On  condition  that  again  you  smile.” 

The  sweet  child  sprang  into  my  arms ; the  while 
She  said,  with  gently  patronizing  air  — 

“ I love  you,  so  no  more  my  hand  I’ll  tear.” 

Now  both  are  pleased  and  on  equality, 

She  with  my  kindness,  with  her  pardon  I. 

A SLAP 

De  la  'petite  main  sort  une  grosse  tape 

From  the  small  hand  was  dealt  a hearty  tap  — 

“ Grandfather,  scold  her.”  “ What,  give  you  a 
slap  ? ” 

The  culprit  you  with  greater  love  behold. 

“ Pray  scold.” — Says  Age — “ I can  no  longer  scold. 
Nothing  but  smiles  are  left  me  now-a-day.” 


793  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

Nero  Fve  seen  proscribe,  Judas  betray, 

Satan  victorious  — rogues  and  ruffians  reign. 

When  one’s  deep  heart  has  proved  on  these  disdain, 
When  one  has  spent  indignant  rage  and  hates, 
When,  viewing  all  that  the  Church  tolerates. 

Which  pulpits  hail,  and  which  the  priest  calls 
right; 

When  dauntless  one  has  raved  on  some  rough 
height, 

When,  on  the  invasion  of  the  Parthian  horde, 

On  Bonaparte’s  black  crime  and  perjured  word; 
On  laws  and  night  doomed  to  a bloody  tomb, 

Barbes  from  Paris,  Brutus  spurned  from  Pome ; 
On  tyrants,  safe  afloat,  while  wrecked  the  state  — 
When  one  has  poured  vials  of  lyric  hate. 

When  one  has  dared  the  prison  roof  remove. 

And  drawn  forth  all  the  clamour  from  above. 

The  imprecations,  lightnings,  hisses,  cries. 

Of  that  dread  holy  cavern  in  the  skies; 

When  one  has  during  days  that  seemed  as  nights, 
Polled  all  the  voices  of  the  gulf  — the  slights  — 
The  darkness,  groans  and  tears  for  France  be- 
trayed, 

Isaiah  heaped  on  Juvenal ; the  shade 
And  ruin  of  infuriate  poesy, 

Like  rocks  of  bitter  hatred  in  the  sky : 

When  ’gainst  one’s  wrath,  the  tomb  no  shelter  gave, 
When  eagles  one  has  struck,  the  dove  to  save  — 
Nimrod,  Napoleon,  Caesar  one  has  beat, 

And  dared  with  scorn  the  whole  Pantheon  treat, 
And  oft  to  quake  that  lofty  building  taught, 

And  on  and  under  earth  has  Justice  wrought. 

And  all  miasmas  far  and  wide  disperst, 

Home  somewhat  weary  one  returns  at  last. 

You  don’t  get  angry  with  familiar  flies, 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


793 


The  little  peeks  that  come  from  aviaries, 

Sweet  mocking  laughter  from  melodious  nests. 
And  all  these  little  gods,  or  little  pests, 

Which  babes  and  brats  we  call,  enchantment 
bring; 

And  when  they  try  to  bite,  you  think  they  sing. 

♦ What  peace  in  pardon ! — Dante  — Cato  be. 
Against  the  mighty,  not  the  small.  Shall  we 
Make  a gruff  voice,  ’gainst  the  soft  cry  that 
charms. 

Or  shall  we  against  sparrows  don  our  arms  ? 

Bah ! ’Gainst  the  dawn  you  don’t  in  anger  come, 
And  thunder  should  be  mild  and  sweet  at  home. 

MY  JEANNE 

Ma  Jeanne , dont  je  suis  doucement  insense 

My  Jeanne,  whom  I tenderly  love  and  adore. 

Is  queenly  in  right  of  her  sex : all  its  lore 
Is  to  beautiful  be,  to  have  arms  white  as  snow, 

And  to  make  by  a look  the  worst  rebel  bend  low ; 

To  know  aught  of  nothing  save  bouquets  and  dress, 
To  enthrall  the  most  learned  by  smile  or  caress. 

To  be  gentle  as  Heaven,  as  fair  as  the  rose, 

To  the  sad  or  ungrateful,  the  poor  or  morose. 
Jeanne  knows  all  about  it,  for  she  is  aged  three; 

And  she  is  the  flower  of  my  old  age,  for  me 
To  contemplate,  cherish  — my  joy,  my  delight! 

My  verse,  which  seems  worthless  when  she  is  in 
sight. 

Is  inspired  by  her  glances,  and  filled  with  her  chat. 
Her  dress  is  a wonder,  bewitching  her  hat, 

Her  red  shoes  are  dainty,  her  movements  as  light 


794 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


As  a fly’s  on  the  wing ; and  the  colours  as  bright 
Of  the  costumes  she  shows  off  with  womanly  pride, 
With  a glimpse  of  the  womanly  spirit  inside. 

’Tis  her  due  to  be  queen,  to  be  fair  is  her  right. 
When  her  sweet  reign  commences  my  wisdom  takes 
flight. 


JEANNE 

Jeanne  etait  au  pain  sec  dans  le  cabinet  noir 

Jeanne,  in  the  dark  room,  had  dry  bread  for  dinner. 
Guilty  of  something  wrong ; and  I — the  sinner  — 
Crept  up  to  see  that  prisoner  in  her  cell. 

And  slipped  — on  the  sly  — some  comfits  to  her. 
Well! 

Against  the  laws,  I own!  Those,  who  with  me 
Support  the  order  of  society. 

Were  furious!  Vainly  murmured  little  Jeanne, 

“ Indeed,  indeed,  I never  will  again 
Eub  my  nose  with  my  thumb!  I won’t  make  pussy 
Scratch  me ! ” They  only  cried,  “ The  naughty  hussy ! 
She  knows  how  weak  you  are  and  wanting  sense. 

And  sees  you  only  laugh  at  grave  offence: 
Government  is  not  possible!  All  day 
Order  is  troubled,  influence  slips  away, 

No  rules,  no  regulations!  nought  can  mend  her; 

You  ruin  everything ! 99  Then  I — the  offender  — 

I hang  my  head,  and  say,  “ There’s  no  excuse ! 

I know  I err ; I know  by  such  abuse, 

Such  wrong  indulgence,  nations  * go  to  pot 
Put  me  upon  dry  bread ! ” “ Why  should  we  not  ? 
We  will ! you  merit  it!  ” But  my  small  maid 
Prom  her  dark  corner  looking  unafraid 
With  eyes  divine  to  see,  full  of  a sense 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


795 


Of  settled  justice,  in  their  innocence. 

Whispered,  for  me  to  hear,  “ Well,  if  they  do, 

I shall  bring  comfits,  Grandpapa,  to  you.” 

IN  THE  WOODS 
Je  suis  des  hois  Vhote  fidele 

In  the  free  wood  I like  to  stray, 

Nature’s  true  flowers  must  I love; 

When  Autumn  comes  the  swallows  say, 

“ ’Tis  time  for  us  to  pack  and  move.” 

When  frost  and  snow  give  way  to  Spring, 

I see  the  buds,  now  coming  back, 

Are  not  in  want  of  anything, 

And  in  the  forest  nothing  lack. 

I say  to  brambles,  “ Maidens,  grow,” 

To  the  wild  thyme,  “ Perfume  the  air,” 

And  to  the  line  of  flowers  that  blow 

On  banks,  “ Now  make  your  hems  with  care.” 

I watch  the  door  half  opening, 

The  wind  that’s  blowing  from  the  height, 

Because  some  roguery  to  bring 
Is  that  deceiver’s  chief  delight. 

I start  as  soon  as  dawn  awakes, 

To  see  that  nothing  goes  awry; 

Of  the  precautions  April  takes, 

’Gainst  January’s  perfidy. 

All  rise  again,  though  all  must  die, 

And  I behold  with  raptured  thought, 


796 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Youth’s  unrestrained  recovery 

By  envious  darkness  vainly  fought. 

I love  the  rustling  copses  dun, 

Eed  lichens,  and  the  ivy  green. 

And  all  the  adornments  which  the  sun 
Invents  to  make  the  ruin’s  sheen. 

When  flowery  May  bedecks  with  plumes. 
Old  dismal  discontented  towers; 

I bid  those  antiquated  tombs 

Leave  Spring  at  will  to  scatter  flowers. 


THE  SPOIL-SPOKT 

Les  belles  filles  sont  en  fuite. 

The  pretty  girls  are  all  in  flight. 

And,  trembling,  know  not  where  to  cower. 

Blue-eyed  as  morn,  black-eyed  as  night, 

They  danced  a-near  the  old  church  tower. 

One  sang  to  keep  the  footing  true: 

The  lads,  with  faces  brightening 

For  joy  o’  the  sound  of  dancing,  flew. 

Their  caps  aflower  with  blooms  of  spring. 

Laughing  and  flushed  with  summer  glee. 

They  tripped  beneath  the  steeple-clock. 

“ I love  J ane ! ” quoth  the  old  oak  tree ; 

“ Ah,  Susan,  I ! ” sighed  the  amorous  rock. 

But  the  black  fiend  o’  the  sombre  tower 
Yelled  loud  to  them : “ Wretches ! Away ! ” 

His  harsh  breath  brake  the  sweet  dance  bower. 
Scattering  the  tiny  feet  from  play. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


797 


Black  eyes,  blue  eyes,  all  are  fled; 

E’en  as  at  dawn  beneath  the  rain 
A flock  of  birds  plies  wing  overhead, 

Of  the  fickle  April  sunshine  fain. 

And  this  fell  rout  hath  made,  alas! 

The  mighty  wood-lords  dumb  with  care; 
Eor  maidens  tripping  on  green  grass 
Make  carol  birds  in  the  blue  air. 

“ Who  is  this  black  man  ? ” murmur  they. 

No  note  is  heard;  for  that  harsh  cry 
Hath  scared  the  pretty  ones  far  away. 

And  farther  yet  bird  melody. 

“ Who  is  this  black  man  ? ” — “ I care  not,” 
A sparrow  chirps,  light-hearted  thief. 
They  weep  as  dawn  to  weep  has  taught; 
But  a white  daisy  whispereth : 

“ I am  about  to  explain  these  things. 

You  mark  not  how  the  dull  world  goes: 
Butterflies  love  all  blossomings, 

But  the  owls  love  not  even  the  rose ! ” 


OEA  AMA 

Le  long  des  berges  court  la  perdrix  au  pied  leste 

The  swift-foot  Partridge  scuds  along  the  banks; 
And  as  to  make  her  join  their  choric  ranks, 

The  circling  clouds  the  virgin  moon  have  ta’en. — 
Dear  little  George,  now  tell  me,  shall  we  twain 
Down  there  ’neath  the  old  willow  go  and  play. 


798 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Night  falls  — they  bathe  — the  mower  plods  his 
way 

Shouldering  his  scythe : he  wipes  his  heated  brow. 
Gleams  indistinct  and  vague  does  twilight  throw 
Upon  the  forms,  all  laughing  in  the  brook. 

The  Vicar  passes  by  and  shuts  his  book ; 

Too  late  to  read  — the  small  remains  of  sun 
Invite  to  prayer  him  who  with  love  has  done, 
Love,  prayer,  are  dawn  and  evening  of  the  soul: 

In  nature  much  akin  — ’neath  love’s  control 
And  ’neath  the  power  of  prayer  we  kneel  alone, 

To  you  when  you’re  a man  will  this  be  known. 
Meanwhile  my  large-eyed  child  all  this  is  told 

To  you,  my  George,  as  to  my  Charles  of  old. 

— When  die  the  rose  wings,  then  the  blue  ones 
grow, 

And  prayer,  no  less  than  love  does  boldness  show 
And  Love  as  prayer,  does  equal  fear  display. 

Still  in  the  open  glade  ’tis  almost  day. 

The  Angelus  proclaims  th’  approach  of  night. 

0 sky  sublime ! dark  mansion  infinite ! 

Walls  passing  speech,  obscure  — illuminate! 

How  in  the  home  of  thunder  penetrate  ? 

Youth  becomes  thoughtful ; age  disquieted 
Before  th’  unknown ; vaguely  with  stars  o’erspread 
The  trembling  eve  like  shivering  dawn  we  see. 

Prayer  is  the  gate,  and  Love  the  opening  key. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


799 


SET  FREE 

Apres  ce  rude  hiver , un  seul  oiseau  restait 

At  Winter’s  close  one  only  bird  remained 
Within  the  cage  which  late  a host  contained, 

A void  was  made  in  the  great  Aviary. 

One  Titmouse,  late  familiar  but  now  shy, 

Was  left  to  solitude  and  dismal  thought; 

Cake,  water,  seed,  to  have,  and  want  for  nought  — 
To  see  a fly  within  its  cage  beguiled 
Was  its  whole  happiness,  ’twas  now  grown  wild; 
No  mate,  not  e’en  a sparrow,  had  it  got  — 

A cage  is  well,  but  a blank  desert  not ! — 

Sad  bird  to  roost  alone,  and  every  morn 
Alone  to  dress  its  feathers  all  forlorn. 

The  wretched  little  thing  left  in  the  lurch 
Grew  shy,  with  turning  his  deserted  perch. 
Sometimes,  as  a set  task,  he  used  to  fly 
From  stick  to  stick  with  endless  industry 
And  frantic  speed.  Then  suddenly  would  sit, 
Dumb,  gloomy,  sad,  nor  from  his  corner  flit. 

To  see  his  feathers  all  puffed  out,  his  eye, 

His  head  put  ’neath  his  wing  though  day  was  high, 
One  guessed  his  mourning,  grief,  and  widowed 
state  — 

Lost  every  song  and  every  tuneful  mate. — 

This  morn  I entered  through  the  cage’s  door. 

Two  poles,  a grot,  a grove,  and  nothing  more 
Furnished  the  prison,  where  a fountain  thrills : — 
Wide  curtains  through  the  winter  guard  from 
chills. 


800 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


At  the  dark  giant’s  sight  — - the  bird  afraid, 

Fled,  high  and  low,  to  find  concealing  shade ; 

In  agony  of  fright  nought  could  assuage  — 

(The  weak,  dismayed,  show  impotence  of  rage). 
He  fluttered  off  before  my  appalling  hand. 

And  I to  catch  him  on  a table  stand. 

Then  terrified,  overcome,  and  uttering  cries. 

He  in  a corner  sank  - — I seized  the  prize. 

What  ’gainst  a monster  can  an  atom  do? 

How,  when  th’  enormous  phantom  clutches  you, 
Can  it  — wan  fragile  captive ! — be  opposed  ? 

It  lay  still  in  my  hands,  its  eyes  were  closed, 

Its  beak  was  wide,  its  neck  hung  from  distress, 

Its  wings  seemed  dead : dumb,  sightless,  motionless ; 
I felt  its  heart  fast  on  its  sides  to  strike. 

To  his  bright  sister  Dawn  is  April  like; 

As  dazzling  he,  as  she  is  pink  and  fair. 

As  one  who  wakes  and  laughs,  he  has  the  air. 
We’re  in  the  month  of  April,  and  my  lawn, 

My  garden,  and  my  neighbour’s  and  the  dawn. 

All  heaven  and  earth  filled  with  that  rapture  are 
Which  in  the  flowers  exhales  — glows  in  the  star ! — 
The  furze  in  gala  dress  gilds  the  ravine, 

Where  the  bees  make  their  murmurings  divine; 

Bent  o’er  the  cress,  the  myosotis  dips 

Its  flowerets  in  the  spring,  and  freshly  sips. 

The  grass  is  happy  — winter  melts  away ; 

Nature  seems  glad,  that  all  things  own  her  sway, 
Scents,  songs,  and  rays  — and  a kind  host  to  be  — 
All  space  feels  love. 

I left  the  Aviary, 

And  toward  the  balcony,  all  ivied  o’er, 

Approached.  The  bird  still  in  my  hand  I bore. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


801 


All  things  to  throb,  glow,  laugh,  renew,  I see ; 
Then  opening  wide  my  hand,  I said  — “ Be  free.” 
Hasted  the  Bird  ’mid  waving  boughs  to  fly. 

And  in  the  radiant  Spring’s  immensity 
I watched  the  little  soul  depart  afar, 

In  that  pink  light  where  flames  commingled  are. 

In  the  deep  air,  the  countless  trees  above, 

Plying  to  the  vague  call  of  nests  and  love. 

Wildly  it  soared  towards  other  wings;  nor  knew 
Which  palace  best  to  choose;  to  boughs  it  flew, 
To  flowers,  to  streams,  to  woods,  in  Spring’s  device, 
With  ecstasy  of  entering  Paradise. 

Then  in  the  light  and  in  the  clear  expanse, 

Seeing  that  flight,  and  that  deliverance, 

And  that  poor  soul  in  port  safe  hid  away  — 
Musing,  I said — “ Death’s  part  I’ve  played  to- 
day.” 

JEANNTE  ASLEEP 

Jeanne  dort;  elle  laisse,  6 pauvre  ange  banni 

J eannie  is  sleeping.  Past  the  bounds  of  sense, 

Her  tender  infant  spirit  wanders  hence, 

An  exiled  angel,  as  the  sparrow  flies 
Among  the  cherry-trees  in  May.  Her  eyes 
Gaze  other-where  than  on  this  world  below; 

Ere  she  will  taste  our  bitter  cup  of  woe, 

She  for  a moment  would  renew  the  tie 
That  links  her  soul  through  shadows  to  the  sky. 
Peace  to  her  slumbers!  Her  vague  murmurings, 
Her  hue  transparent  as  a night-moth’s  wings, 

Her  even  breath,  her  ringlets  soft  and  bright, 


802 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Her  calm,,  are  all  one  image  of  delight; 

The  grandsire  old,  who  knows  his  vanquisher, 

In  servitude  contented  watches  her. 

Beings  like  this  of  all  things  on  the  earth 

Are  least  — and  greatest.  Mark  and  see  the  birth, 

Upon  her  lips,  of  a faint  innocent  smile, 

That  comes  one  knows  not  whence.  How  fair  the 
while 

Her  features ! — and  how  deep  the  pregnancy 
Of  that  faint  smile,  which  out  of  mystery 
Flashes  upon  the  grandsire,  and  unrolls 
To  him  alone  its  meaning ! New-born  souls, 

Not  yet  bared  of  their  glory,  wear  a light 
From  the  far  empyrean ; and  the  sight 
Of  morning,  blended  with  his  evening,  makes 
An  old  man’s  heart  grow  softer,  while  he  wakes. 

Waken  her  not.  .She  sleeps,  a budding  rose. 

Leave  her  to  dream  in  slumber,  and  compose 
Her  semblance  of  the  most  celestial  hues 
That  glint  in  heaven.  Ambrosial  honey-dews 
From  lily  on  lily  and  out  of  dream  on  dream 
She  gathers ; and  her  sylph-like  soul  would  seem 
To  forage,  in  its  “ rosy  pudency,” 

Among  her  visions,  as  in  flowers  a bee. 


THE  EPIC  OF  THE  LION 
Vn  lion  avait  pris  en  enfant  dans  sa  gueule 


I. 

A lion  in  his  jaws  caught  up  a child  — 
Not  harming  it  — and  to  the  woodland,  wild 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


803 


With  secret  streams  and  lairs,  bore  off  his  prey; 

The  beast,  as  one  might  cull  a flower  in  May, 

Had  plucked  this  bud,  not  thinking  wrong  or  right, 
Mumbling  its  stalk,  too  proud  or  kind  to  bite, — 

A lion’s  way,  roughly  compassionate. 

Yet  truly  dismal  was  the  victim’s  fate; 

Thrust  in  a cave  that  rumbled  with  each  roar. 

His  food  wild  herbs,  his  bed  the  earthy  floor, 

He  lived,  half-dead  with  daily  frightening. 

It  was  a rosy  boy,  son  of  a king ; 

A ten-year  lad  with  bright  eyes  shining  wide. 

And  save  this  son  his  majesty  beside 

Had  but  one  girl  — two  years  of  age  — and  so 

The  monarch  suffered,  being  old,  much  woe. 

His  heir  the  monster’s  prey,  while  the  whole  land 
In  dread  both  of  the  beast  and  king  did  stand; 

Sore  terrified  were  all : — 


By  came  a Knight 

That  road,  who  halted,  asking,  “ What’s  the  fright  ? ” 
They  told  him,  and  he  spurred  straight  for  the  den. 

0,  such  a place!  the  sunlight  entering  in 
Grew  pale  and  crept,  so  grim  a sight  was  shown 
Where  the  gaunt  Lion  on  the  rock  lay  prone: 

The  wood,  at  this  part  thick  of  growth  and  wet, 
Barred  out  the  sky  with  black  trunks  closely  set ; 
Forest  and  forester  matched  wondrous  well ! 

Great  stones  stood  near,  with  ancient  tales  to  tell  — 
Such  as  make  moorlands  weird  in  Brittany  — 

And  at  its  edge  a mountain  you  might  see, 

One  of  those  iron  walls  which  shut  off  heaven; 

The  Lion’s  den  was  a deep  cavern  driven 
Into  the  granite  ridge,  fenced  round  with  oaks; 
Cities  and  caverns  are  discordant  folks, 


804  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

They  bear  each  other  grudges!  this  did  wave 
A rustling  threat  to  trespasser, — “ Hence,  knave ! 

Or  meet  my  Lion ! ” 

In  the  champion  went. 
The  den  had  all  the  sombre  sentiment 
Which  palaces  display  — deaths  — murderings  — 
Terrors ! — you  felt  “here  dwells  one  of  the  kings 
Bones  strewn  around  showed  that  this  mighty  lord 
Denied  himself  nought  which  his  woods  afford. 

A rock-rift  pierced  by  stroke  of  lightning  gave 
Such  misty  glimmer  as  a den  need  have : 

What  eagles  might  think  dawn,  and  owls  the  dusk, 
Makes  day  enough  for  kings  of  claw  and  tusk. 

All  else  was  regal,  though ! you  understood 
Why  the  majestic  brute  slept,  as  he  should. 

On  leaves,  with  no  lace  curtains  to  his  bed ; 

And  how  his  wine  was  blood  — nay,  or  instead. 
Spring-water  lapped  sans  napkin,  spoon,  or  cup, 

Or  lackeys. 

Being  from  spur  to  crest  mailed  up, 
The  champion  enters. 

In  the  den  he  spies 

Truly  a Mighty  One ! Crowned  to  the  eyes 
With  shaggy  golden  fell  — the  Beast ! — it  muses 
With  look  infallible;  for,  if  he  chooses-, 

The  master  of  a wood  may  play  at  Pope, 

And  this  one  had  such  claws,  there  was  small  hope 
To  argue  with  him  on  a point  of  creed ! 

The  Knight  approached  — yet  not  too  fast,  indeed; 

His  footfall  clanged,  flaunted  his  rose-red  feather, 
Hone  the  more  notice  took  the  Beast  of  either, 

Still  in  his  own  reflections  plunged  profound ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


805 


Theseus  a-marching  upon  that  black  ground 
Of  Sisyphus,  Ixion,  and  dire  hell. 

Saw  such  a scene,  murk  and  implacable : 

But  duty  whispered  “ Forward ! ” so  the  Knight 
Drew  forth  his  sword : the  Lion  at  that  sight 
Lifted  his  head  in  slow  wise,  grim  to  see. 

The  knight  said:  “Greeting!  monstrous  brute!  to 
thee; 

In  this  foul  hole  thou  hast  a child  in  keeping,- — 

I search  its  noisome  nooks  with  glances  sweeping, 

But  spy  him  not.  That  child  I must  reclaim, 
Friends  are  we  if  thou  renderest  up  the  same ; 

If  not  — I too  am  lion,  thou  wilt  find; 

The  king  his  lost  son  in  his  arms  shall  bind ; 

While  here  thy  wicked  blood  runs,  smoking-hot. 
Before  another  dawn.” 


“ I fancy  not,” 

Pensive  the  Lion  said. 

The  Knight  strode  near, 

Brandished  his  blade  and  cried : “ Sire ! have  a 

care ! ” 

The  Beast  was  seen  to  smile  — ominous  sight ! — 
Never  make  lions  smile ! Then  joined  they  fight, 
The  man  and  monster,  in  most  desperate  duel, 

Like  warring  giants,  angry,  huge,  and  cruel; 

Like  tigers  crimsoning  an  Indian  wood. 

The  man  with  steel,  the  beast  with  claws  as  good; 
Fang  matching  blade,  hide  mail,  that  sylvan  lord 
Hurled  himself  foaming  on  the  flashing  sword : 

Stout  though  the  Kinght,  the  Lion  stronger  was. 

And  tore  his  brave  breast  under  its  cuirass, 

And  striking  blow  on  blow  with  ponderous  paw. 
Forced  plate  and  rivet  off,  until  you  saw 


806 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Through  all  the  armour’s  cracks  the  bright  blood 
spirt, 

As  when  clenched  fingers  make  a mulberry  squirt; 
And  piece  by  piece  he  stripped  the  iron  sheath, 
Helm,  armlets,  greaves  — gnawed  bare  the  bones  be- 
neath. 

Scrunching  that  hero,  till  he  sprawled  — alas ! 
Beneath  his  shield,  all  blood,  and  mud,  and  mess: 
Whereat  the  Lion  feasted : — then  it  went 
Back  to  its  rocky  couch  and  slept  content. 


II. 


Next  came  a hermit: 

He  found  out  the  cave; 

With  girdle,  gown,  and  cross  — trembling  and 
grave  — 

He  entered.  There  that  Knight  lay,  out  of  shape. 
Mere  pulp : the  Lion  waking  up  did  gape, 

Opened  his  yellow  orbs,  heard  some  one  grope. 

And  — seeing  the  woollen  coat  bound  with  a rope, 

A black  peaked  cowl,  and  inside  that  a man  — 

He  finished  yawning  and  to  growl  began: 

Then,  with  a voice  like  prison-gates  which  creak, 
Roared,  “ What  would’st  thou  ? ” 

“ My  King” 

“ King?” 

“ May  I speak  ? ” 


“ Of  whom  ? ” 

“ The  Prince.” 

“ Is  that  what  makes  a King  ? ” 
The  monk  bowed  reverence,  “ Majesty ! I bring 
A message  — wherefore  keep  this  child  ? ” 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


807 


“ For  that 

Whene’er  it  rains  I’ve  some  one  here  to  chat.” 

“ Return  him.” 

“ Not  so.” 

“ What  then  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Would’st  eat  him  ? ” 

“ Ay  — if  I have  naught  to  chew  ? ” 
“ Sire ! think  upon  His  majesty  in  woe ! ” 

“ They  killed  my  dam,”  the  Beast  said,  “ long  ago.” 
“ Bethink  thee,  sire,  a king  implores  a king.” 

“ Nonsense — -he  talks  — he’s  man!  when  my  notes 
ring 

A Lion’s  heard ! ” 

“ His  only  boy ! ” 

“ Well,  well! 

He  hath  a daughter.” 

" She’s  no  heir.” 

“1  dwell 

Alone  in  this  my  home,  ’mid  wood  and  rock, 

Thunder  my  music,  and  the  lightning-shock 
My  lamp;  — let  his  content  him.” 

“ Ah ! show  pity.” 
“ What  means  that  word  ? is’t  current  in  your  city  ? ” 
“ Lion,  thou’dst  wish  to  go  to  heaven  — see  here ! 

I offer  thee  indulgence,  and,  writ  clear, 

God’s  passport  to  His  paradise ! ” 

“ Get  forth. 

Thou  holy  rogue,”  thundered  the  Beast  in  wrath: 
The  hermit  disappeared. 

hi. 

Thereat  left  free. 

Full  of  a lion’s  vast  serenity, 

He  slept  again,  letting  the  still  night  pass: 


808 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


The  moon  rose,  starting  spectres  on  the  grass, 
Shrouding  the  marsh  with  mist,  blotting  the  ways. 
And  melting  the  black  woodland  to  grey  maze; 

No  stir  was  seen  below,  above  no  motion 
Save  of  the  white  stars  trooping  to  the  ocean: 

And  while  the  mole  and  cricket  in  the  brake 
Kept  watch,  the  Lion’s  measured  breath  did  make 
Slow  symphony  which  held  all  creatures  calm. 
Sudden  — loud  cries  and  clamours,  striking  qualm 
Into  the  heart  of  the  quiet,  horn  and  shout 
Causing  the  solemn  wood  to  reel  with  rout. 

And  all  the  nymphs  to  tremble  in  their  trees. 

The  uproars  of  a midnight  chase  are  these 
Which  shakes  the  shades,  the  marsh,  mountain  and 
stream. 

And  breaks  the  silence  of  their  sombre  dream. 

The  thicket  flashed  with  many  a lurid  spark 
Of  torches  borne  ’mid  wild  cries  through  the  dark ; 
Hounds,  nose  to  earth,  ran  yelping  through  the  wood, 
And  armed  groups,  gathering  in  the  alleys,  stood. 
Terrific  was  the  noise  that  rolled  before; 

It  seemed  a squadron ; nay,  ’twas  something  more  — 
A whole  battalion,  sent  by  that  sad  king, 

With  force  of  arms  his  little  Prince  to  bring. 
Together  with  the  Lion’s  bleeding  hide. 

Which  here  was  right  or  wrong  ? who  can  decide  ? 
Have  beasts  or  men  most  claim  to  live  ? God  wots ! 
He  is  the  unit,  we  the  cipher-dots. 

Well  warmed  with  meat  and  drink  those  soldiers 
were. 

Good  hearts  they  bore  — and  many  a bow  and  spear ; 
Their  number  large,  and  by  a captain  led 
Valiant,  whilst  some  in  foreign  wars  had  bled, 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


809 


And  all  were  men  approved  and  firm  in  fight ; 

The  Lion  heard  their  cries,  affronting  night, 

For  by  this  time  his  awful  lids  were  lifted; 

But  from  the  rock  his  chin  he  never  shifted, 

And  only  his  great  tail  wagged  to  and  fro. 

Meantime,  outside  the  cavern,  startled  so, 

Came  close  the  uproar  of  this  shouting  crowd. 

As  round  a web  flies  buzzing  in  a cloud, 

Or  hive-bees  swarming  o’er  a bear  ensnared. 

This  hunter’s  legion  buzzed,  and  swarmed,  and  flared. 
In  battle  order  all  their  ranks  were  set : 

’Twas  understood  the  Beast  they  came  to  get, 

Fierce  as  a tiger’s  cunning  — strong  to  seize  — 
Could  munch  up  heroes  as  an  ape  cracks  fleas, 

Could  with  one  glance  make  Jove’s  own  bird  look 
down; 

Wherefore  they  laid  him  siege  as  to  a town. 

The  pioneers  with  axes  cleared  the  way. 

The  spearmen  followed  in  close  array, 

The  archers  held  their  arrows  on  the  string; 

Silence  was  bid,  lest  any  chattering 
Should  mask  the  Lion’s  footstep  in  the  wood; 

The  dogs  — who  know  the  moment  when  ’tis  good 
To  hold  their  peace  — went  first,  nose  to  the  ground. 
Giving  no  tongue;  the  torches  all  around 
Hither  and  thither  flickered,  their  long  beams 
Through  sighing  foliage  sending  ruddy  gleams : — 
Such  is  the  order  a great  hunt  should  have: 

And  soon  between  the  trunks  they  spy  the  cave, 

A black,  dim-outlined  hole,  deep  in  the  gloom, 
Gaping,  but  blank  and  silent  as  the  tomb. 

Wide  open  to  the  night,  as  though  it  feared 
As  little  all  that  clamour  as  it  heard. 

There’s  smoke  where  fire  smoulders,  and  a town, 


810 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


When  men  lay  siege,  rings  tocsin  np  and  down ; 
Nothing  so  here ! therefore  with  vague  dismay 
Each  stood,  and  grasp  on  bow  or  blade  did  lay, 
Watching  the  horrid  stillness  of  that  chasm : 

The  dogs  among  themselves  whimpered:  a spasm 
From  the  horror  lurking  in  such  voiceless  places  — 
Worse  than  the  rage  of  tempests  — blanched  all 
faces : 

Yet  they  were  there  to  find  and  fight  this  Thing, 

So  they  advance,  each  bush  examining. 

Dreading  full  sore  the  very  prey  they  sought; 

The  pioneers  held  high  the  lamps  they  brought: 

“ There ! that  is  it ! the  very  mouth  of  the  den ! ” 
The  trees  all  round  it  muttered,  warning  men: 

Still  they  kept  step  and  neared  it  — look  you  now, 
Company’s  pleasant,  and  there  were  a thou  — 

Good  Lord ! all  in  a moment,  there’s  its  face ! 

Frightful ! — they  saw  the  Lion ! Not  one  pace 
Further  stirred  any  man;  the  very  trees 
Grew  blacker  with  his  presence,  and  the  breeze 
Blew  shudders  into  all  hearts  present  there: 

Yet,  whether  ’twas  from  valour  or  wild  fear, 

The  archers  drew  — and  arrow,  bolt,  and  dart 
Made  target  of  the  Beast.  He,  on  his  part  — 

As  calm  as  Pelion  in  the  rain  or  hail  — 

Bristled  majestic  from  the  nose  to  tail. 

And  shook  full  fifty  missiles  from  his  hide; 

Yet  any  meaner  brute  had  found  beside 
Enough  still  sticking  fast  to  make  him  yell 
Or  fly;  the  blood  was  trickling  down  his  fell. 

But  no  heed  took  he,  glaring  steadfastly; 

And  all  those  men  of  war,  amazed  to  be 
Thus  met  by  so  stupendous  might  and  pride, 
Thought  him  no  beast,  but  some  god  brutified. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


811 


The  hounds,  tail  down,  slunk  back  behind  the  spears ; 
And  then  the  Lion,  ’mid  the  silence,  rears 
His  awful  face,  and  over  wood  and  marsh 
Roared  a vast  roar,  hoarse,  vibrant,  vengeful,  harsh, 
A rolling,  raging  peal  of  wrath,  which  spread 
From  the  quaking  earth  to  the  echoing  vault  over- 
head. 

Making  the  half-awakened  thunder  cry, 

“ Who  thunders  there  ? ” from  its  black  bed  of  sky. 

This  ended  all ! — sheer  horror  cleared  the  coast : 

As  fogs  are  driven  by  wind,  that  valorous  host 
Melted,  dispersed  to  all  the  quarters  four, 

Clean  panic-stricken  by  that  monstrous  roar ; 

Each  with  one  impulse  — leaders,  rank  and  file, 
Deeming  it  haunted  ground,  where  Earth  somewhile 
Is  wont  to  breed  marvels  of  lawless  might  — 

They  scampered,  mad,  blind,  reckless,  wild  with 
fright. 

Then  quoth  the  Lion,  “ Woods  and  mountains!  see, 
A thousand  men  enslaved  fear  one  beast  free ! ” 

As  lava  to  volcanoes,  so  a roar 

Is  to  these  creatures;  and,  the  eruption  o’er 

In  heaven-shaking  wrath,  they  mostly  calm. 

The  gods  themselves  to  lions  yield  the  palm 
For  magnanimity.  When  Jove  was  king, 

Hercules  said,  “ Let’s  finish  off  the  thing, 

Hot  the  Hemaean  merely;  every  one 

We’ll  strangle  — all  the  lions.”  Whereupon 

The  lions  yawned  a “ much  obliged ! ” his  way. 

But  this  Beast,  being  whelped  by  night,  not  day  — 
Offspring  of  glooms  — was  sterner;  one  of  those 
Who  go  down  slowly  when  their  storm’s  at  close; 


812 


THE  POEMS  OP  VICTOR  HUGO 


His  anger  had  a savage  ground-swell  in  it: 

He  loved  to  take  his  naps,  too,  to  the  minute, 

And  to  be  roused  up  thus  with  horn  and  hound, — 
To  find  an  ambush  sprung  — to  be  hemmed  round  — 
Targeted  — ’twas  an  insult  to  his  grove ! 

He  paced  towards  the  hill,  climbed  high  above, 
Lifted  his  voice,  and,  as  the  sowers  sow 
The  seeds  down  wind,  thus  did  that  Lion  throw 
His  message  far  enough  the  town  to  reach. 

“ King ! your  behaviour  really  passes  speech ! 

Thus  far  no  harm  Fve  wrought  to  him  your  son; 
But  now  I give  you  notice  — when  night’s  done 
I will  make  entry  at  your  city-gate, 

Bringing  the  Prince  alive;  and  those  that  wait 
To  see  him  in  my  jaws  — your  lackey-crew  — 
Shall  see  me  eat  him  in  your  palace  too ! ” 

Quiet  the  night  passed,  while  the  streamlets  bubbled. 
And  the  clouds  sailed  across  the  vault  untroubled. 

Next  morning  this  is  what  was  viewed  in  town : 
Dawn  coming  — people  going  — some  adown 
'Praying,  some  crying;  pallid  cheeks,  swift  feet, 

And  a huge  Lion  stalking  through  the  street. 


IV. 

The  quaking  townsmen  in  the  cellars  hid; 

How  make  resistance?  briefly,  no  one  did; 

The  soldiers  left  their  posts,  the  gates  stood  wide ; 
’Twas  felt  the  Lion  had  upon  his  side 
A majesty  so  godlike,  such  an  air  — 

That  den,  too,  was  so  dark  and  grim  a lair  — 

It  seemed  scarce  short  of  rash  impiety 
To  cross  its  path  as  the  fierce  Beast  went  by. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


So  to  the  palace  and  its  gilded  dome 
With  stately  steps  unchallenged  did  he  roam, 

In  many  a spot  with  those  vile  darts  scarred  still, 
As  you  may  note  an  oak  scored  with  the  bill, 

Yet  nothing  recks  that  giant-trunk;  so  here 
Paced  this  proud,  wounded  Lion,  free  of  fear. 
While  all  the  people  held  aloof  in  dread. 

Seeing  the  scarlet  jaws  of  that  great  head 
Hold  up  the  princely  boy  — aswoon. 

Is’t  true 

Princes  are  flesh  and  blood  ? Ah,  yes ! and  you 
Had  wept  with  sacred  pity,  seeing  him 
Swing  in  the  Lion’s  mouth,  body  and  limb : 

The  tender  captive  gripped  by  those  grim  fangs. 
On  either  side  the  jowl  helplessly  hangs, 
Deathlike,  albeit  he  bore  no  wound  of  tooth. 

And  for  the  brute  thus  gagged  it  was,  in  sooth, 
A grievous  thing  to  wish  to  roar,  yet  be 
Muzzled  and  dumb,  so  he  walked  savagely, 

His  pent  heart  blazing  through  his  burning  eyes. 
While  not  one  bow  is  stretched,  no  arrow  flies; 
They  dreaded,  peradventure,  lest  some  shaft, 
Shot  with  a trembling  hand  and  faltering  craft, 
Might  miss  the  Beast  and  pierce  the  Prince: 

So,  still 

As  he  had  promised,  roaring  from  his  hill, 

This  Lion,  scorning  town  and  townfolk  sick 
To  view  such  terror,  goes  on  straight  and  quick 
To  the  King’s  house,  hoping  to  meet  there  one 
Who  dares  to  speak  with  him : — outside  is  none ! 
The  door’s  ajar,  and  flaps  with  every  blast; 

He  enters  it  — within  those  walls  at  last ! — 

No  man! 


814 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


For,  certes,  though  he  raged  and  wept, 

His  Majesty,  like  all,  close  shelter  kept. 

Solicitous  to  live,  holding  his  breath 
Specially  precious  to  the  realm:  now  death 
Is  not  thus  viewed  by  honest  beasts  of  prey. 

And  when  the  Lion  found  him  fled  away. 

Ashamed  to  be  so  grand,  man  being  so  base. 

He  muttered  to  himself  in  that  dark  place 
Where  lions  keep  their  thoughts : “ This  wretched 

King! 

’Tis  well,  IT1  eat  his  boy ! ” Then,  wandering, 
Lordly  he  traversed  courts  and  corridors, 

Paced  beneath  vaults  of  gold  on  shining  floors, 
Glanced  at  the  throne  deserted,  stalked  from  hall 
To  hall  — green,  yellow,  crimson  — empty  all! 

Rich  couches  void,  soft  seats  unoccupied ! 

And  as  he  walked  he  looked  from  side  to  side 
To  find  some  pleasant  nook  for  his  repast. 

Since  appetite  was  come  to  munch  at  last 
The  princely  morsel : — Ah ! what  sight  astounds 
That  grisly  lounger? 

In  the  palace  grounds 
An  alcove  on  a garden  gives,  and  there 
A tiny  thing  — forgot  in  the  general  fear. 

Lulled  in  the  flower-sweet  dreams  of  infancy. 
Bathed  with  soft  sunlight  falling  brokenly 
Through  leaf  and  lattice  — was  that  moment  wak- 
ing; 

A little  lovely  maid,  most  dear  and  taking, 

The  Prince’s  sister;  all  alone  — undressed  — 

She  sate  up  singing:  children  sing  so  best. 

A voice  of  joy,  than  silver  lute-string  softer ! 

A mouth  all  rose-bud  blossoming  in  laughter ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


815 


A baby-angel  hard  at  play!  a dream 
Of  Bethlehem’s  cradle,  or  what  nests  would  seem 
If  girls  were  hatched ! — all  these ! Eyes,  too,  so 
blue 

That  sea  and  sky  might  own  their  sapphire  new ! 
Neck  bare,  arms  bare,  pink  legs  and  stomach  bare ! 
Nought  hid  the  roseate  satin  skin,  save  where 
A little  white-laced  shift  was  fastened  free; 

She  looked  as  fresh,  singing  thus  peacefully, 

As  stars  at  twilight  or  as  April’s  heaven; 

A floweret  — you  had  said  — divinely  given. 

To  show  on  earth  how  God’s  own  lilies  grow; 

Such  was  this  beauteous  baby-maid;  and  so 
The  Beast  caught  sight  of  her  and  stopped  — 

And  then 

Entered:  — the  floor  creaked  as  he  stalked  straight 

in. 

Above  the  playthings  by  the  little  bed 
The  Lion  thrust  his  shaggy  massive  head. 

Dreadful  with  savage  might  and  lordly  scorn, 

More  dreadful  with  that  princely  prey  so  borne; 
Which  she,  quick  spying,  “ Brother ! brother ! ” cried, 
“ Oh,  my  own  brother ! ” and  unterrified  — 

Looking  a living  rose  that  made  the  place 
Brighter  and  warmer  with  its  fearless  grace  — 

She  gazed  upon  that  monster  of  the  wood, 

Whose  yellow  balls  not  Typhon  had  withstood. 

And  — well!  who  knows  what  thoughts  these  small 
heads  hold? 

She  rose  up  in  her  cot  — full  height,  and  bold, 

And  shook  her  pink  fist  angrily  at  him. 

Whereon  — close  to  the  little  bed’s  white  rim. 

All  dainty  silk  and  laces  — this  huge  Brute 
Set  down  her  brother  gently  at  her  foot, 


816 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Just  as  a mother  might,  and  said  to  her  — 

“ Don’t  be  put  out,  now ! there  he  is,  dear ! — there ! ” 


THE  SOULS  THAT  HAVE  GONE 
Ces  antes  que  tu  rappelles 

Those  souls  to  memory  dear, 

Do  ne’er  return  again. 

But  in  some  blissful  sphere 
For  aye,  alas ! remain. 

In  those  bright  worlds  above, 

Of  azure  and  of  light. 

Far,  far  from  those  they  love. 

Is  theirs  contentment  quite? 

We  had,  with  arbours  round, 

A dwelling  near  Saint  Leu. 

How  fair  the  flower-decked  ground! 
The  sky  above  how  blue! 

Amid  the  fallen  leaves. 

We’d  rove  the  forest  o’er. 

And  oft  on  summer  eves 
Old  ruined  walls  explore. 

Our  laughter  was  as  gay 

As  rang  through  Eden’s  glade, 

With  something  still  to  say 
That  had  before  been  said. 

We  fairy  tales  reheard, 

And  happy  were,  God  knows! 

At  sight  of  passing  bird 
Our  joyous  voices  rose. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


817 


SPOILT  CHILDREN 

En  me  voyant  si  peu  redoutable  aux  enfants 

Seeing  that  children  fear  me  not,  and  I 
Am  made  to  muse  by  conquering  Infancy, 

Staid,  serious  folk  knit  their  dark  brows  amazed  — 
A Grandfather  broke  loose  from  bounds  and  crazed 
Is  what  I am. — Wrapt  in  paternity 
Nought  but  a good  old  headstrong  smile  am  I. 

Dear  little  ones,  I’m  Grandfather  complete. 

He  loves  those  dwarfs  with  the  sky’s  blue  replete  — 
He  longs  to  get  the  moon,  Heaven’s  silver  pelf, 

For  them,  perhaps  a little  for  himself. 

Not  sane  in  fact  — ’tis  terrible,  I reign 
111,  and  by  fear  will  ne’er  my  realm  restrain. 

My  subjects  Jeanne  and  George,  the  Greybeard  I, 
Grandsire  uncurbed,  mad  with  benignity. 

All  laws  I make  them  overleap,  indeed 
Their  roseate  commonwealth  to  crimes  I lead. 
Seduced  by  harmful  popularity. 

You  may  allow  the  old,  whose  night  is  nigh, 

His  love  of  grace,  and  laughter,  and  the  morn. — 
But  of  the  babes  whose  crimes  are  not  yet  born, 

I can  but  ask.  Should  a Grandsire  be  so 
Anarchical  as  with  his  hand  to  show 
As  where  in  shade  adventures  may  be  met, 

The  cupboard  where  the  pots  of  jam  are  set? 

Yes ! Housewives,  weep ! — for  them,  by  fiendish 
plots 

I do  confess  I stole  those  sacred  pots! 

Dreadful ! For  them  climbed  chairs,  if  to  my  eyes 
Discovered  hid  a plate  of  strawberries 
Kept  for  ourselves. — The  vile  Grandfather  cries. 
“Dear,  little,  greedy  birds  of  Paradise, 


818 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


They  are  for  you  — but  look  into  the  street ; 

Poor  children  — one  a babe  — your  eyes  will  meet. 
They’re  hungry;  bring  them  up  and  share  the  prize.’* 

To  doff  the  mask  — I hold  it  prejudice ; 

I deem  those  rules  stupid  mistakes  and  vain. 

That  crags  from  the  great  eagles  would  restrain, 
Love  from  white  bosoms,  and  from  children  joy. 

I call  it  stifling,  priggish  idiocy. 

I laugh  when  we  our  manly  fury  vent, 

A child  from  picking  apples  to  prevent ; 

When  we  permit  our  kings  false  oaths  to  plight: 
Defend  your  apples  less,  and  more  your  right, 
Peasant ! — When  flows  the  tide  of  infamy. 

When  bourgeois  shameless,  voting  “ Yes,”  we  see 
Basile,  a banker  — Scapin,  a mitred  lord ; 

When,  as  we  move  a pawn  upon  the  board, 

A bold  adventurer  stakes  a crime  on  France, 

And  passionless  and  dark  plays  with  the  chance, 

Or  of  a convict’s  chain,  or  Emperor’s  throne ! 

When  this  is  suffered,  and  no  fury  shown, 

And  treason  reigns,  sunk  in  foul  revelry ; 

Then  I for  refuge  among  cradles  fly. 

I seek  the  gentle  dawn,  and  more  delight 
In  the  pure  troops  of  merry  elves  and  bright. 

Doing  whate’er  they  like  to  pass  the  time, 

Than  in  a crowd,  accepting  festive  crime. 

And  Paris  soiled  by  the  lower  empire  — 

And  in  spoilt  children,  than  in  rotten  sire ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


819 


THE  POOR  CHILDREN 

Prenez  garde  d ce  petit  etre 

Take  heed  of  this  small  child  of  earth; 

He  is  great : he  hath  in  him  God  most  high. 
Children  before  their  fleshly  birth 
Are  lights  alive  in  the  blue  sky. 

In  our  light  bitter  world  of  wrong 

They  come;  God  gives  us  them  awhile. 

His  speech  is  in  their  stammering  tongue, 

And  his  forgiveness  is  their  smile. 

Their  sweet  light  rests  upon  our  eyes. 

Alas!  their  right  to  joy  is  plain. 

If  they  are  hungry,  Paradise 

Weeps,  and,  if  cold  Heaven  thrills  with  pain. 

The  want  that  saps  their  sinless  flower 
Speaks  judgment  on  sin’s  ministers. 

Man  holds  an  angel  in  his  power. 

Ah ! deep  in  Heaven  what  thunder  stirs, 

When  God  seeks  out  these  tender  things 
Whom  in  the  shadow  where  we  sleep 
He  sends  us  clothed  about  with  wings. 

And  finds  them  ragged  babes  that  weep! 

IN  THE  MEADOWS 
Je  me  penche  attendri 

O’er  wood  and  stream  I muse  with  tenderness, 

Of  birds  and  flowers  a Grandfather  no  less. 


820 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


I pity  feel  for  all  the  things  that  are. 

And  bid  the  children  even  roses  spare. 

Scare  neither  plant  nor  animal,  I say ; 

Laugh  without  frightening,  without  harming  play ; 
Jeanne  and  her  brother  George,  pure-browed,  bright- 
eyed, 

Sparkle  amid  the  flowers  expanding  wide. 

Harmless  I wander  in  this  Paradise; 

I hear  them  sing,  and  musing  thoughts  arise, 

In  their  glad  games  how  little  heed  they  take 
Of  the  sad  sound  the  turning  pages  make. 

Of  Fate’s  mysterious  volume. — From  the  priest 
How  far  they  are  — how  near  to  Jesus  Christ. 


THE  RISING  GENERATION 

Que  voulez-vous?  L’ enfant  me  tient  en  sa  puissance 

What  should  I do?  Childhood  has  hold  of  me; 

I have  come  to  love  nothing  but  innocency; 

Men  are  of  brass,  of  lead;  childhood  is  gold. 

I am  devoted  to  Astyanax ; 

I grumble  at  Hector ; “ Art  thou  well  assured 
Thou  didst  thy  duty  towards  Troy  ? ” My  heaven 
Is  a clear  blue,  that  thunders  now  and  then. 

Wrath  and  good  nature  are  spring-tides  with  me; 

I know  no  bounds,  no  more  when  my  lips  smile 
Than  when  my  words  are  fierce.  Starry  and  re- 
mote 

The  spirit  whereof  my  soul  is  full.  My  heart 
Checks  at  no  frontier,  and  I have  in  it 
No  barriers  against  love  of  little  ones. 

Rights  of  the  weak  and  succour  that  is  due 
To  all  who  are  unhappy.  If  this  be  sickness. 

Then  the  Asylum  for  Incurables 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


821 


Is  the  right  place  for  me.  I cannot  see 
Why,  coming  down  from  heaven  upon  mankind, 
Rays  of  the  sun  should  stop  half-way.  I know 
No  medium  kind  of  truth.  Free  I would  have 
The  use  of  laughter,  bare  the  light  o’  the  star. 

I am  old;  you  pass;  and,  to  my  joy  or  sorrow, 
Your  generation  has  me  instantly 
For  its  adoptive  father.  Find  for  me 
A thing  to  do,  however  radical. 

Belonging  to  my  post  as  ancestor. 

And,  whether  aid  or  censure,  I will  do  it. 

I stood  one  day  upon  the  winning  side; 

I gasped  for  breath ; I felt  how  pitiless 
Is  victory ; I took  flight.  A reef  — a beach 
Received  me.  Death  drew  near  to  accost  me. 
“ Exile,” 

It  said,  “ all  hail ! ” Thereat  one  smiled  on  me, 

One  that  is  mighty,  one  that  dreams  in  me  — 

My  conscience.  And  from  that  time  forth  I loved 
Children;  not  finding  aught  save  infancy 
Worthier  of  note,  under  God’s  heaven,  than  I. 

A child,  compact  of  love  and  simpleness, 

Is  the  sole  being  in  this  dark  life  of  ours 
That  can  be  little  without  littleness, 

Being  without  envy.  That  is  why  I love 
These  birdlings. 


In  my  visions,  none  the  less, 
I watch  these  pygmies  grow  to  heroes.  France! 
I want  to  see  them  apt  for  duty.  Grown, 

I feel  that  they  become  responsible, 

I smile  no  more;  and  to  myself  I say  — 

There  is  a doughty  battle  to  be  fought 
Against  thrones,  scaffolds,  palaces  and  slums. 
Sceptres  and  swords.  I am  tender  to  the  child, 


822 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Harsh  to  the  father.  Give  me  men  well  made ! 

Let  them  bethink  them  of  their  native  land, 
Dragged  by  the  heels,  dragged  by  a fist  in  the  hair, 
Around  the  Vandals5  camp.  It  angers  me 
When,  at  Berlin  or  Borne,  the  feudal  wolf 
Bevives,  affronts  the  morning  sun,  reopens 
The  jaws  of  its  two  heads  — heads  that  so  oft 
Have  bitten  each  other.  Worst  of  griefs,  I feel 
France  growing  tragically  less.  I chide 
Whoever  has  a beard  upon  his  chin: 

What,  this  tall  silly-billy  is  as  old 

As  Danton  ? This  poor  creature  might  be  Hoche, 

And  is  Jocrisse!  Then  dawn  abashes  me; 

My  heaven  is  hid ; I hanker  for  the  tomb. 

Sadly  I remember  what  our  sires  have  done, 

Their  ocean  that  laid  siege  to  promontories, 

Their  Marseillaise  that  brought  down  walls  in  ruins. 
The  gates  of  night  unhinged,  the  hydra  slain, 

The  dragon  wounded.  I behold  their  flag 
Laurelled  with  lightnings.  Ah,  how  jovially 
They  crushed  all  Europe  in  that  clasp  of  steel! 
Soldiers  of  Egypt,  Valmy,  and  the  Bhine, 
Wrestling,  avenging,  let  men  imitate  them! 

I am  a sire,  I say,  whose  progeny 

Must  keep  on  growing  better.  I would  have 

Angels  in  heaven  breed  archangels.  I, 

Gaffer  indulgent,  but  stern  ancestor, 

As  gentle  on  this  side  as  on  that  severe, 

Would  have  men  wallow  in  glory  limitless, 

So  it  were  hallowed  — so  it  saved  our  land. 

I would  not  have  our  towns  to  be  one  day 
What  Herculaneums  and  Pompeiis  are; 

I do  not  see  why  spirits  should  be  depraved; 

I do  not  see  why  nobody  should  match 
In  energy  or  hope,  daring  or  dying. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


823 


The  men  of  Ulm,  Jena,  and  the  Pyramids. 

What,  could  brave  men  beget  men  fearful?  No, 

No,  you  have  blood  — blood,  youngsters,  in  your 
veins ! 

For  the  old  world  of  disgraces  our  forbears 
Were  desperate  heroes;  in  the  future,  though. 

There  is  yet  scope ; be  as  your  sires  were,  giants ! 

But  be  a people,  not  a populace. 

So  may  we  wish  their  outlook  back  again, 

The  same  freeing  of  the  nations,  the  same  hymn. 
Same  rendings  off  of  bonds  and  livery-coats, 

And  the  same  fame,  safe  from  remorse  and  stainless, 
For  our  heirs  living  as  for  our  fathers  dead. 

THE  GRANDFATHER’S  SONG 

Dancez  les  petites  files 

Dance,  little  girls. 

All  in  a ring; 

To  see  you  so  pretty. 

The  forest  will  sing. 

Dance,  little  Queens, 

All  in  a ring; 

Loves  to  Lasses 

Sweet  kisses  will  bring. 

Dance,  little  Madcaps, 

All  in  a ring; 

The  crabbed  old  mistress 
Will  grumble  and  fling. 

Dance,  little  beauties. 

All  in  a ring; 


824 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


The  birds  will  applaud  you 
With  clapping  of  wing. 

Dance,  little  Fairies, 

All  in  a ring; 

With  cornflower  garlands 
And  fair  as  the  spring. 

Dance,  little  women, 

All  in  a ring; 

Each  Beau  to  his  Lady 
Says  some  pretty  thing. 


SONG  OF  OUR  FATHERS 

Parlons  de  nos  dieux  sous  la  verte  feuillee 

Let  us  tell  of  our  ancestors  under  the  oak  — 

Our  fathers,  who  triumphed,  who  threw  off  the  yoke ; 

Their  harness  is  rusted  asunder; 

But  their  memories  shed  on  the  twilight  of  time. 

Like  soft-welling  water-drops,  flashes  sublime. 

As  though  they  had  steeped  them  in  thunder. 
Strike,  boys,  strike 
Buckler  on  pike  — 

Strike! 

They  shunned  the  red  wine  and  the  pale  courtezan. 
True  children  of  Brennus,  unmoved  they  could  scan. 
With  the  shadow  of  palaces  o’er  them. 

Bared  bosoms  — heads  severed;  the  censers,  the 
songs, 

The  priest  and  the  soldier  — the  splendour  of 
throngs 


K 


Lu- 'ARY 
Or  THE 

l!"!r;>p:n7  CF  1UJN0T 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


825 


In  the  king’s  train  passing  before  them. 

Strike,  boys,  strike 
Buckler  on  pike  — 

Strike ! 

They,  they  were  the  Titans,  the  emmets  are  we ; 

Their  Gaul  was  the  mother  of  France  that  should  be ; 

The  freedom  they  nursed,  they  achieved  it. 

The  mountains  remember  the  promise  of  day ; 

The  dawn  may  come  late,  but  it  cometh  alway; 

They  only  are  great  who  believed  it. 

Strike,  boys,  strike 
Buckler  on  pike  — 

Strike ! 

Lift  up  your  eyes  to  the  hill-tops  of  story  — 

They  were  there!  Lift  them  up  to  the  summits  of 
glory. 

To  liberty’s  cliff-girdled  plain; 

They  were  there!  To  die  free  was  their  crown  of 
endeavor ; 

A reveling  life  is  a creeping  life  ever; 

Climb  — climb  to  those  highlands  again! 

Strike,  knights,  strike 
Buckler  on  pike  — 

Strike ! 


JEANNE  ASLEEP 

L’oiseau  chante;  je  suis  au  fond  des  reveries 

Birds  sing,  and  I am  plunged  in  reveries; 
There  lies  she,  rosy  ’neath  the  flowery  trees, 
Rocked  in  her  cot,  as  in  a Halcyon’s  nest. 

Soft,  unperceiving  in  her  tranquil  rest, 


826 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


How  sun  and  shade  successive  on  her  fall. 

She’s  tiny,  she  is  supernatural ! 

Vast  loveliness  of  infant  purity! 

I muse  — she  dreams  — beneath  her  brow  there  lie 
Entanglements  of  visions  all  serene; 

Cloud-women,  every  one  a stately  queen ; 

Angels  and  lions,  with  mild  kindly  air. 

And  poor  good  giants,  of  whom  dwarfs  take  care ; 
Triumphs  of  forest  flowers,  and  trophies  bright 
Of  heavenly  trees,  all  full  of  Fairy  light, 

A cloud  where  half  disclosed  is  Paradise  — 

Such  are  the  sights  in  childhood’s  sleep  arise. 

The  baby’s  cradle  is  the  realm  of  dreams 
And  real,  each  vision  which  God  sends,  it  deems. 
Thence  their  fresh  smile,  and  their  deep  peace  re- 
ceived. 

Soon  — one  may  say — “’Twas  false  all  I believed.” 

But  the  good  God  shall  answer  from  the  cloud ; 

“ No ! — you  dreamed  Heaven  — Though  shadows  I’ve 
allowed, 

Heaven  you  will  have  — For  the  next  cradle  wait; 
The  Tomb.”  ’Tis  thus  I dream.  Sing,  birds, 
elate ! — 


FRATERNITY 

Je  reve  Vequite,  la>  verite  profonde 

Of  real  truth  and  justice  are  my  dreams; 

Of  love  that  wills,  and  of  the  hope  that  beams ; 

Of  faith  that  can  move  mountains;  of  man’s  heart 
Enlightened,  rather  than  condemned  to  smart; 

I dream  of  what  is  tender,  gentle,  good, 

And  all-forgiving.  Hence  my  solitude. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


827 


’Tis  common  for  the  savageness,  that  lurks 
Of  old  in  man,  to  justify  its  works; 

As  priest  or  judge,  to  deem  it  has  a right 
To  do  whatever  seems  pleasing  in  its  sight; 

And  to  suppose  that  putting  on  a gown 
Confers  the  right  to  lay  its  conscience  down. 

It  takes  the  balance-sheets  of  heaven,  and  strikes 
Out  what  offends  it,  adds  whatever  it  likes; 

For  equity  of  God  it  substitutes 

The  laws  of  man;  the  charter  of  the  brutes, 

Of  child,  of  woman,  is  erased  therefrom; 

It  falsifies  the  ciphers,  and  the  sum. 

Hence  the  “man  gods”;  hence  monarchs  who  are 
" suns  ” ; 

Hence,  on  our  pavements,  all  that  blood  that  runs; 
The  persecution,  the  lament,  the  rage, 

And  the  grave  features  of  the  insulted  sage. 

Who  was  the  first  to  cry  when  Jesus  came, 

“ Away  with  him  ” ? ’Twas  the  high  priest.  0 shame ! 
At  all  times,  and  for  evermore  to  stay. 

Whatever  we  may  think,  whatever  say, 

The  Furies,  in  religion,  are  at  home; 

Megsera  is  a Catholic  of  Rome; 

Alecto  is  baptized;  the  bleeding  Nun, 

Who  to  Arbuez  sang  an  antiphon 
In  his  church-service,  was  Tisiphone ; 

Louvois  was  hounded  on  by  such  as  she. 

And  such  the  harpies  who  with  Bossuet’s  aid 
Incited  Boufflers  to  the  Dragonnade. 

Do  not  suppose  if  God  himself  drew  nigh 
Man’s  pristine  frenzy  would  be  stayed,  would  fly 
Before  the  light  divine.  The  purest  breeze, 

Though  from  above,  it  taints  with  its  disease, 

The  sweetest  love-songs  with  its  evil  rage. 


828 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Progress,  the  truest,  fairest,  the  most  sage 
And  righteous,  for  its  monstrous  track  makes  way 
It  ebbs  with  nightfall,  but  returns  with  day. 
Cromwell  may  smite  one  tyrant  — one  survives, 
Cromwell  himself.  The  wicked  lose  their  lives. 
The  wickedness  lives  on.  Dawn  cannot  clear 
The  skies  of  the  dark  spectre.  The  austere 
And  humorous  exorcist,  mother-wit, 

Assails  the  vampire  without  mastering  it. 

A sullen  grandam  in  the  best  arm-chair. 

Ferocity  has  made  our  hearts  its  lair, 

And  as  it  ruled  the  father,  rules  the  son. 

A new  ideal  epoch  seemed  begun, 

Of  late,  upon  this  worn-out  continent, 

A people  stood  upright  in  wonderment; 

Bastilles  were  stormed  by  whirlwinds  of  July, 

And  Revolutions  on  the  mountains  high 
And  on  the  seas  — thy  daughters.  Liberty ! 

Arose  and  won  a civic  victory, 

A battle  of  giants ! Nature  stood  aghast 
At  that  portentous  passing  of  the  Past  — 

Of  Lar  and  Lemur,  Chaos  and  old  Night; 

When  all  unheedful  of  the  dawning  light 
The  fiend  returned,  its  trophies  to  deface. 

And  Carrier  leered  in  Torquemada’s  place. 

The  human  hive  awakened,  buzzing  loud. 
Emerging  from  the  shadow  of  the  cloud. 

Soared  in  the  blue,  laboured  toward  better  hours. 
Sang,  gathered  honey  from  all  kinds  of  flowers ; 
Hatred  the  while,  the  old  spirit  of  the  old  Cain, 
Stood  by  and  marked  our  paradise  with  pain, 

And  that  her  sway  unbroken  still  might  last 
Chained  the  bright  future  to  the  grovelling  Past; 
Or  if  a link  was  wanting  to  the  chain 
For  Pere  Letellier  gave  us  Pere  Duchene; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


829 


Till  all  the  damned,  with  Satan  at  their  head. 
Might  laugh  to  see  our  Eden  frustrated. 

Yet,  heart  of  mine,  to  wish  that  Man  should  be 
Good,  great,  indulgent,  is  not  lunacy; 

No,  not  to  croak  the  same  unvarying  ditty 
Till  thou  art  hoarse  — Have  pity  — pity  — pity ! 

Thou  art  not  mad  in  wishing  more  of  white 
Even  to  swans;  to  howlets,  less  of  night; 

Not  mad,  in  sighing  over  all  oppressed; 

It  is  no  dream  or  error,  to  have  guessed 
That  good  is  latent  with  the  bad ; that  none 
Were  ever  born  on  whom  no  light  hath  shone ; 

And  that  of  those  by  whom  offences  came 
The  lesser  part  were  in  themselves  to  blame. 

Man  is  to  evil  what  the  weather-glass 

Is  to  the  wind;  he  marks  the  storms  that  pass, 

Not  adding  to  them  or  omitting  aught; 

And  if  he  sinks  or  rises,  cause  and  fault 
Lie  in  the  air  — the  dark  external  power. 

Man  is  the  hoisted  flag  upon  a tower; 

By  every  breath  that  rustles,  flickers,  glides 
And  passes,  it  is  moved;  and  no  one  chides 
The  conscious  rag  that  shivers  to  the  gust. 

0 dust,  be  merciful  to  other  dust! 

0 men,  my  brothers,  you  are  tempest-tossed. 
Scattered  by  whirlwinds,  in  abysses  lost; 

Have  mercy ! Life  is  brief,  and  hearts  must  bleed ; 
Each  to  his  neighbour  worm  show  grace  at  need ! 
Even  when  I have  trespassed,  when  I slip 
And  fall,  the  darkness  having  made  me  trip, 

For  what  the  night,  the  winter  drave  me  to, 

To  be  absolved  — loved  — pitied  is  my  due. 


830 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


There  was  a vision  passed  before  my  eyes; 

It  seemed  a woman  ’lighting  from  the  skies; 
Wings  were  upon  her  shoulders,  sweetness  lay 
Between  her  parted  lips,  and  in  her  eyes  the  day. 
For  weary  travellers  journeying  abroad 
She  pointed  in  the  darkness  to  one  road. 

Seeming  to  say — ’Tis  difficult  to  find. 

Her  aspect  was  benign  to  all  mankind; 

Bright  was  she  and  mild ; fierce  creatures  following 
Behind  her  trooped  with  rue,  kissing  her  wing, 
Lions  and  tigers  pardoned  for  their  crimes, 
Nimrod  redeemed,  Nero  in  tears;  at  times 
For  very  goodness  she  was  held  absurd; 

And  falling  on  my  knees,  without  one  word 
I worshipped  her,  thinking  her  function  plain. 

But  she  — before  an  angel  ’tis  in  vain 
That  man  is  silent  — in  my  bosom  read : 

" Not  Pity  — Justice  is  my  name,”  she  said. 


LES  QI7ATRE  VENTS  DE  I/ESPRIT 
1881 


LES  QUATRE  VENTS  DE  L ’ESPRIT 

PROSE  POETRY 

Trends  garde  d Marchangy . La  prose  poetique 

’Ware  Marchangy ! Prose  poetry  is  a quag 
Where  Pegasus  becomes  a foundered  nag. 

’Tis  true,  as  fully  as  to  verse,  to  prose 
Belong  the  rhythm  divine,  the  rounded  close ; 

So  but  the  tunes  be  latent,  rhythms  cut  short. 

Not  aping  metre,  in  severer  sort. 

Prose  rides  in  vain  on  irritating  springs ; 

Verse  up  to  heaven  spontaneous  plies  its  wings; 
Soars,  for  ’tis  verse;  somewhat,  I know  not  what. 
Frail  but  undying,  that  sings  and  wearies  not ; 

Wild,  with  a streak  of  lightning  in  its  eyes, 

It  mounts,  it  hovers,  mingling  in  the  skies 
With  those  far  gleams  that  warm  the  morning  air. 
Prose,  though  it  waltz  from  hence  to  the  Great  Bear, 
Is  prose  and  nothing  more  — sermo  pedestris : 

You  aim  at  Ariel,  and  you  are  — Vestris. 


PRETTY  WOMEN 

On  leur  fait  des  sonnets , passables  quelquefois 

We  write  them  sonnets,  sometimes  pretty  good; 

We  kiss  the  hands  they  deign  to  extend  to  us; 
We  follow  them  to  church,  or  to  the  wood; 

We  play  the  Orlando,  play  the  Proteus; 


834 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Balls  are  their  triumphs,  and  we  court  their  choice ; 
They  laugh,  they  chat,  they  dance;  and  you  may 
hear 

Amid  the  dancing,  o’er  the  hautboys  clear. 

These  beauties  lisp  in  their  most  tender  voice  — 

"We  want  more  jails : the  guillotine  is  right ; 

And  fewer  schools ; you  can  have  too  much  light : 

War  is  a blessing;  force  is  everything; 

If  Paris  stirs,  you  must  have  forts,  with  guns.” 

And  every  word  these  doves  are  uttering 
Might  move  a shudder  in  dead  skeletons. 


THE  STAIR 

Je  suis  fait  d! ombre  et  de  marbre 

Of  the  marble  and  the  shade 
Cast  by  midnight  I was  made; 

In  the  gloom  where  tree-roots  darken 
Am  I planted,  and  I hearken 
Deep  in  earth,  and  from  thereunder 
Cry  aloud,  and  bid  the  thunder 
"Wait:  be  still,  and  mark.” 

I the  Poet  have  been  made 
Out  of  marble  and  deep  shade 
A mysterious  winding  Stair 
From  the  depths  to  upper  air. 

On  my  landings,  as  they  rise 
Flight  by  flight,  the  restless  eyes 
Open,  of  the  dark. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


835 


There  shall  gleam  upon  your  nights 
Corpse-candles  for  banquet-lights. 
Pass,  ye  revellers  of  a day! 

Pass,  respect  this  virgin  way : 

Steps  of  mine  were  no-wise  meet 
Made  for  pleasure’s  winged  feet  — 
Naked  feet  of  Love. 

At  my  depth  and  at  my  height 
All  things  shiver  with  affright; 
Even  spectres  wilt  with  dread: 

From  the  region  of  the  dead 
I uprise,  and  build  a way 
To  that  door,  where-through  the  ray 
Passes,  far  above. 

Laughter,  lights,  and  jollity  — 

Those  within  are  full  of  glee. 

In  their  blood-flecked  diadem 
All  observe  and  worship  them; 
Woman  freelier  stales  her  charms 
Of  bared  bust  and  sleeveless  arms. 

If  they  wear  a crown. 

Let  the  bolt,  the  padlock,  be; 

Here  the  stairway  stands  of  me. 
Vengeance  waits  the  hour  to  strike; 
Day  shall  dawn  for  all  alike; 

One,  whene’er  these  shadows  end 
By  my  ladder  shall  ascend  — 

One  thereby  come  down. 


836 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


TO  THE  CLOUDS  AND  THE  BIRDS 
0 verges  du  zenith,  nuees 

Clouds,  heaven’s  virgins  fair  and  sweet. 

And  birds!  soft  children  of  the  skies. 

Ye  purities;  the  dawn  doth  greet. 

Gazed  on  by  Ocean’s  azure  eyes. 

Ye  by  Eve  first  of  all  things  hight, 

Ye  for  whom  God,  who  rules  on  high. 

Created  that  abyss  called  light, 

And  made  those  wings  called  liberty. 

Ye,  from  the  gulf  in  which  we  are. 

Whom  in  the  vast  vague  sky  we  see; 

Ye,  who  for  Romes  little  care. 

And  deem  that  anthills  nobler  be ! 

Ye,  whom  the  dew  with  mist  invests, 

And  feeds  and  forms  with  tears  and  showers; 

Ye  birds  who  spring  from  hidden  nests, 

Ye  clouds  that  rise  up  from  the  flowers. 

Speak ! ye  from  day  who  spring  elate. 

Through  an  unbounded  course  to  fly. 

Whom  doth  the  ether  penetrate 
With  glory  and  serenity. 

Ye  who  see  mountains  bleak  and  bold, 

And  morning  fresh,  and  night’s  dark  face ; 

Who  all  the  earth  and  seas  behold  — 

Free  wanderers  of  the  azure  space; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


837 


Say  what  doth  the  calm  night  proclaim 
What  think  th*  inhabitants  of  light. 
Of  all  this  sordid  human  shame 
That  crawls  beneath  the  Infinite. 


THE  POOL 

La  calomnie  immonde  et  qu’ on  jette  en  courant 

Foul  calumnies,  which  those  who  stone  us  throw 
At  random,  as  they  pass, 

Sink  without  muddying  its  transparent  flow 
In  the  souFs  pool  of  glass. 

Deep  in  the  ooze,  imbedded  stagnantly. 

Far  from  the  day  they  hide; 

While  love  and  hope,  candour  and  charity 
Float  buoyant  on  the  tide. 

And  smiling  faith,  and  dreaming  quietness, 

And  goodness  frank  and  kind 

Come  back  to  dip  their  wings  of  white  no  less 
Within  the  unruffled  mind. 

The  passers*  insults  in  the  purest  mere  — 

On  the  most  reverend  head  — 

Fall ; but  the  swans  swim  on  the  surface,  clear 
Above  the  miry  bed. 


AN  OLD-TIME  LAY 

Quelqufun  connait-il  ma  cachettet 

Does  any  one  know  my  bower,  say? 
*Tis  a calm  shelter,  where  the  sun 


838 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Redeemed,  one  bright  springtide  day, 

The  wrong  six  wintry  months  have  done. 

Clear  limpid  waters  wander  there; 

Among  tall  reeds  the  lily  floats; 

While  lovers*  murmurs  in  warm  air 

Are  mingled  with  the  birds*  blithe  notes. 

There,  *mong  the  flowers,  are  scattered  groups 
As  in  a dream  one  walks,  one  rests : 

Here,  sparkling  song  in  the  depth  of  cups. 
Dim  silence  there  in  the  depth  of  nests. 

The  charm  of  this  dim  solitude, 

The  grace  of  that  soft,  sunny  height. 
Seems  with  the  tear  of  Greuze  bedewed. 
With  gentle  Watteau*s  smile  made  bright. 

Through  mist  doth  far-off  Paris  lower; 

There,  Regnier*s  bower  of  wine  and  glee 
Is  worth  not,  here,  one  dreamful  hour 
*JSTeath  rosy  lamps  of  a chestnut  tree. 

Ye  know  not  dreamland*s  sweetest  things 
Till  in  cool  cavern  you  repose  — 

Lo!  waking,  with  weird  murmurings 
They*re  lost  *mong  rustling  forest-boughs. 

Art  proud?  The  fault  doth  me  surpass. 

Ambitious  ? How  can  that  be  so. 

Since  one  can  dream  among  the  grass 
Beneath  the  mystic  moon*s  soft  glow ! 

The  flowers*  bright  language  amorous 
Art  deaf  to  ev*n  in  rosy  May? 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


839 


Listen!  It  sweetly  biddeth  us 
In  our  dull  souls  let  blossom  day. 

While  glistening  robes,  breasts  bright  as  lilies. 
Warm  cooings,  tender  like  a dove. 

Of  Galatea  and  blithesome  Phyllis 
Counsel  the  woodways,  laughter,  love. 

THE  FLOWER  OF  DEATH 

La  vision  de  la  vie 

The  vision  of  humankind, 

A phantom  chased  by  the  wind. 
Unheeded  passes  me  by. 

Earth  is  a ruinous  heap. 

The  hours*  encircling  sweep  — 

What  should  it  signify  ? 

What’s  gold  of  harvest,  to  me? 

What,  the  star  from  the  sea, 

Or  morn  that  gilds  heaven’s  dome  ? 
What,  the  tuft  on  the  spray, 

Or  drift-cloud  white  or  grey? 

These  are  not  my  home. 

I regard  other  sights, 

Hew  blossoms,  other  lights. 

The  other  aspect  of  doom. 

And  the  dark  garden  of  Death 
Which  Night  o’ershadoweth. 

And  Death’s  wan  flower  in  bloom. 

For  whom  is’t  that  it  blows. 

That  pale  perennial  rose  ? 

Sadly  its  buds  expand. 


840 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


It  sends  forth  on  the  air 
A fragrance  balmy  and  rare 
Into  a silent  land. 

Behind  a death-charged  mist 
The  poison-petals  are  kissed 
By  a strange  halo-light. 

Like  to  a face  in  sweat 
The  woeful  plant  is  wet. 

Livid,  stricken  with  blight. 

By  its  rays,  that  eclipse 
This  earth’s  apocalypse, 

That  which  is  real  I scan. 

Elesh  fails;  life  is  a lie. 

Things  spiritual  the  mind’s  eye 
Sees  better,  freed  from  the  man. 


NEAR  AVRANCHES 

La  nuit  morne  tombait  sur  la  morne  etendue 

On  ocean  mournful,  vast,  fell  the  vast  mournful 
night. 

The  darkling  wind  awoke,  and  urged  to  hurried 
flight. 

Athwart  the  granite  crags,  above  the  granite  crests, 

Some  sails  unto  their  haven,  some  birds  unto  their 
nests. 

Sad  unto  death,  I gazed  on  all  the  world  around. 

Oh ! how  yon  sea  is  vast,  and  the  soul  of  man  pro- 
found ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


841 


Afar  St.  Michael  towered,  the  wan  salt  waves  amid, 

Huge  Cheops  of  the  west,  the  ocean-pyramid. 

On  Egypt,  home  of  fathomless  mysteries,  did  I brood, 

Its  sandy  desert’s  grand  eternal  solitude. 

All-darkling  camp  of  kings  ne’er  stirred  by  battle- 
breath, 

Planted  for  aye  i’  the  sombre  stricken  field  of  death. 

Alas ! In  even  these  spots  where  widest-winged  doth 
rove 

God’s  breath,  supreme  in  wrath,  omnipotent  in  love, 

To  erect  beneath  high  heaven  what  hath  been  man’s 
sole  care  ? — 

Lo,  here  a prison  frowns,  and  there  a sepulchre. 


MY  HAPPIEST  DEEAM 

J’aime  a me  figurer,  de  longs  voiles  couvertes 

I love  to  watch  in  fancy,  to  some  soft  dreamy  strain, 
A choir  of  lovely  virgins  issuing  angel-calm, 

Veiled  all  in  white,  at  even,  from  some  old  shadowy 
fane; 

In  hand  — a palm ! 

A dream  which  in  my  darkest  hours  doth  aye  beguile 
Is  this : a group  of  children,  ere  they  seek  repose. 
Merrily  dancing;  on  each  rosebud  mouth  a smile. 
Each  brow  — a rose! 

Haply  a dream  yet  sweeter,  that  yields  yet  more  de- 
light. 

Is  of  a radiant  girl,  who,  betwixt  joy  and  fear. 


843 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Dreameth  of  Love,  not  knowing,  beneath  God’s  stars 
love-bright ; 

In  eye  — a tear! 

Another  vision  which  doth  lend  my  sorrow  ease: 

Lo,  Marguerite  and  Jeanne,  like  birds  at  evening 
Flitting  across  the  lawn,  across  the  shadowy  leas ; 
Each  foot  — a wing! 

But  of  all  dreams  whereon  I gaze  with  pensive  eyes. 
This  to  my  poet-soul  most  pleasure  doth  afford : 

A tyrant  stretched  beneath  God’s  awful  starlit  skies ; 
In  heart  — a sword! 

A sword ; but  never  a dagger ! Poet,  thy  right 
Is,  ’neath  the  broad  blue  sky,  a fair  free  fight. 
Where,  face  to  face,  and  foot  to  foot,  and  breast 
To  breast,  thou  stand’st  — and  leav’st  to  God  the  rest. 
Thou  Justice’  champion  {he,  the  chos’n  of  hell!) 

In  the  sun’s  eye  cross  falchions,  and  smite  well ; 

Thy  sword-clash  ringing  true  as  even  thy  song. 

So,  if  yet  once  again  Right  fall  ’neath  Wrong, 
Right’s  warrior,  mingling  with  death’s  shadowy 
bands. 

Find  Bayard  and  the  Cid  with  outstretched  hands. 


0 N HEARING  THE  PRINCESS  ROYAL1  SING 

Dans  ta  haute  demeure 

I n thine  abode  so  high 

Where  yet  one  scarce  can  breathe, 

Dear  child,  most  tenderly 

A soft  song  thou  dost  wreathe. 

i Marie,  daughter  of  King  Louis  Philippe,  afterwards 
Princess  of  Wurtemburg. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


843 


Thou  singest,  little  girl  — 

Thy  sire,  the  King  is  he : 

Around  thee  glories  whirl. 

But  all  things  sigh  in  thee. 

Thy  thought  may  seek  not  wings 
Of  speech;  dear  love’s  forbidden; 

Thy  smiles,  those  heavenly  things, 
Being  faintly  born,  are  chidden. 

Thou  feel’st,  poor  little  Bride, 

A hand  unknown  and  chill 

Clasp  thine  from  out  the  wide 
Deep  shade  so  deathly  still. 

Thy  sad  heart,  wingless,  weak. 

Is  sunk  in  this  black  shade 

So  deep,  thy  small  hands  seek. 

Vainly,  the  pulse  God  made. 

Thou  art  yet  but  highness,  thou 
That  shalt  be  majesty: 

Though  still  on  thy  fair  brow 
Some  faint  dawn-flush  may  be. 

Child,  unto  armies  dear, 

Even  now  we  mark  heaven’s  light 

Dimmed  with  the  fume  and  fear 
And  glory  of  battle-might. 

Thy  godfather  is  he. 

Earth’s  Pope, — he  hails  thee,  child  1 

Passing,  armed  men  you  see 
Like  unarmed  women,  mild. 


844  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

As  saint  all  worship  thee; 

Thyself  even  hast  the  strong 
Thrill  of  divinity 
Mingled  with  thy  small  song. 

Each  grand  old  warrior 

Guards  thee,  submissive,  proud; 

Mute  thunders  at  thy  door 

Sleep,  that  shall  wake  most  loud. 

Around  thee  foams  the  wild 
Bright  sea,  the  lot  of  kings. 

Happier  wert  thou,  my  child, 

F the  woods  a bird  that  sings! 

TWILIGHT 
TJn  hymne  harmonieux 

With  a vague  dreamful  hymn  the  aspen  leaves  are 
stirred ; 

Belated  travellers,  to  walk  alone  afeard, 

Lift  voices  through  the  twilight,  onward  hastening. 
0 suffer  each  timid  bird 
Sing! 

The  weary  mariners  are  cradled  on  the  main; 

Blue  waves,  wherewith  the  noontide  mingles  hot  gold 
rain. 

Find  ease,  for  the  sun  is  set,  and  almost  cease  to 
weep. 

0 suffer  all  sorrow,  all  pain 
Sleep ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


845 


Ah!  though  to-day  be  dark,  one  dreams  a bright  to- 
morrow ; 

Dim  tearful  eyes  toward  heaven  are  raised  some  blue 
to  borrow; 

Godward  our  hope  is  winged,  God  speeds  it  on  the 
way. 

0 suffer  all  pain,  all  sorrow 
Pray! 

’Tis  for  a purer  air  that  here  one  fails  for  breath ; 

All  that  above  would  soar  must  first  be  laid  beneath ; 

In  earth’s  last  silence  all  must  seek  heaven’s  harmony. 

0 suffer  all  fain  of  death 
Die ! 


PEPITA 

Enfance!  Madrid!  campagne 

Oh  to  be  a child  again ! 

To  behold  Madrid  — the  Prado  — 
And  in  sun  the  face  of  Spain, 

And  thine,  Pepita,  in  shadow ! 

I was  eight  years  old,  and  she 
Twice  my  age.  To  be  her  king, 

As  she  would  call  me,  fluttered  me  — 
Look,  the  May  is  blossoming! 

She  admired  an  officer. 

Later  on  it  struck  my  blindness 
Why,  while  loving  him,  the  fair 
To  myself  alone  showed  kindness. 


846 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


With  my  flame  she  lit  the  pile 
Destined  to  consume  another; 

Would  from  him  withhold  a smile ; 
Me  with  a caress  would  smother. — 

And  the  well-invested  kiss, 

Which  appeared  a free  gift  to  me, 

Boused  the  young  man’s  jealousies. 
And  was  potent  to  undo  me. 

With  fists  clenched  he  strode  astride; 
I,  triumphant  o’er  my  neighbour. 

Wished  I had  a horse  to  ride  — 
Dreamt  of  brandishing  a sabre. 

Fanning,  thus,  with  point  of  wing 
In  my  breast  the  new-born  fancies, 

With  an  air  of  wondering 

At  the  effect  of  her  soft  glances. 

In  unconscious  womanhood 

Sporting,  as  she  vowed  to  have  me. 

She  dispelled  my  cloudy  mood 
With  the  kiss  her  bounty  gave  me. 

Well  or  ill,  at  every  age. 

Whether  giddier  or  colder, 

We  keep  learning  something  sage 
From  a child  a few  years  older. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


847 


AN  OLD-TIME  LAY 

Jamais  elle  ne  rattle 

Never  sigh  or  tear 
Irks  this  happy  fay; 

But  she  laugheth  aye. — 

There  are  wisps  of  straw,  while  mossy  twigs  are  here : 
Reed  warbler,  breeze-blest, 

Build  on  the  waves  thy  nest. 

Beneath  beams  most  fair 
Of  thine  eyes  so  bright 
Passing,  what  delight ! — 

Here  are  mossy  twigs,  while  wisps  of  straw  are  there : 
Swallow  sweet,  sun-blest, 

Build  ’neath  mine  eaves  thy  nest. 

May  drinks  April’s  tear. 

While  her  azure  eyes 
Wake  birds’  blithest  cries. — 

Here  is  her  sweet  smile,  her  blush  yet  sweeter,  here  — 
Happy  Love,  thus  blest, 

Build  in  my  heart  thy  nest  1 

THE  CHOICE 

Je  disais ; — Dieu  qu’aucun  suppliant  n’invportune 

I used  to  pray  “ Thou  whom  prayers  weary  not. 
When  in  Thy  wisdom  Thou  would’st  try  my  heart, 
Suffer  my  will  to  choose,  for  mine  own  part. 

The  one  or  other  lot. 


848 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


“ God  of  both  reed  and  cedar,  leave  to  me 
Bare  independence,  wealthy  servitude; 

Between  the  gilded  cage  and  the  green  wood 
Let  the  bird's  choice  be  free.” 

Free  have  I lived,  and  I am  near  my  night; 

Hard  exile  have  I chosen ; my  green  home 
Darkens;  but  I behold,  beyond  the  gloom, 

The  soul's  stars  waxing  bright. 

JERSEY 

Jersey  dort  dans  les  flots 

Jersey,  lulled  by  the  waves'  eternal  chime. 

Sleeps ; in  her  smallness  being  twice  sublime ; 

A rocky  mountain, — born  amid  blue  sea. 

Old  England  northward,  southward  Normandy, 

Our  sweet  she  is,  and  in  her  summer-trance 
Hath  the  bright  smiles,  and  oft  the  tears,  of  France. 

For  the  third  time  now  her  flowers  and  fruits  I've 
seen. 

0 land  of  Exile,  little  island  queen, 

Be  blest  of  me  as  by  thy  billows  blest ! 

This  small  bright  nook  where  the  tired  soul  finds  rest, 
If  'twere  my  country,  were  my  haven  of  life. 

Here,  as  some  mariner  from  sea-stormy  strife 
Rescued,  I'd  dwell,  and  suffer  with  delight 
The  sun  shine  all  my  darkling  soul  snow-white 
Like  yonder  linen  bleaching  on  the  grass. 

Musing  profoundly  seems  each  rocky  mass ; 

Within  whose  hollow  caverns  waves  forever 
Gurgle  and  sob.  When  evening  falleth,  shiver 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


849 


The  trees,  weird  sibyls  with  the  wind  for  wail; 
While  the  huge  cromlech,  like  a spectre  pale, 

Towers  on  the  hill,  till  ’neath  the  wan  moon-ray 
It  turns  to  Moloch  grinning  o’er  his  prey. 

Along  the  beach,  when  blow  the  strong  west-winds. 
In  every  craggy  corner  where  one  finds 
Frail  fisher-huts,  across  the  thatch  that  slopes 
Seaward,  are  stretched  stone-weighted  briny  ropes, 
Lest  by  the  blast  the  roof  be  torn  away. 

With  bosom  bare,  some  old-world  ocean-lay 
Each  mother  to  her  sailor  babe  doth  drawl, 

What  time  from  out  the  surf  a boat  they  haul ; — 
While  laugh  the  meadows. 

Hail,  0 sacred  Isle, 

That  brightliest  to  heaven’s  rosiest  dawn  dost  smile ! 
Hail  beacons,  stars  by  fisher-folk  best  blest ! 

Old  mossy  church-towers  where  blithe  swallows  nest ! 
Poor  altars  rudely  carved  of  fishermen ! 
Elm-shadowed  roads  where  creaks  the  heavy  wain; 
Gardens  bright-flushed  with  flowers  of  every  dye ; 
Streams  with  blue  sea  for  goal,  dreams  with  blue 
sky,— 

All  hail! 

On  the  horizon  wings  snow-white 
Of  vessels ; nearer  shore  the  sea-mews’  flight, — 

Old  Ocean’s  fearless  wave-delighting  flock ! 

Lo,  Venus  smiling  on  each  storm-scarred  rock. 

What  time, — to  song  of  birds  and  billows  born, — 
She  gives  to  heaven  the  rosy-dimpled  Morn. 

0 heather  on  the  hills ! foam  on  the  waves ! 

Cybele’s  crumbling  palace  ocean  laves ! 


850 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Rough  mountain  soothed  by  ocean  melodies! 

Lowing  of  kine ! Sweet  slumber  beneath  trees ! 

The  islands  seems  immersed  in  voiceless  prayer, 

Not  to  be  turned  therefrom,  though  ocean,  air, 
Around  her  blend  their  vast  defiant  chaunts. 

The  cloud  weeps,  passing;  lo,  the  rock  that  vaunts 
Upon  its  spur  how  many  a brave  ship  riven. 

Keeps  on  its  crest  for  the  bird  a little  dew  of  heaven ! 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  ADllLE 

Tout  enfant,  tu  dormais  pres  de  moi 

Near  me  you  slept,  a fresh  and  rosy  child. 

Cradled,  the  infant  Jesus  thus  had  smiled. 

So  calm,  so  soft  your  sleep  of  purity. 

You  could  not  hear  the  birds  sing  in  the  shade, 

And  I inhaled  all  the  sad  sweetness  made 
By  the  mysterious  sky. 

I heard  the  angels  round  your  pillow  meet; 

And  as  I watched  your  slumbers,  on  your  sheet 
Jasmine  and  pinks  I strewed  silent  and  still. 
Marking  your  lids  fast  closed  in  sleep,  I prayed, 

And  my  eyes  filled  with  tears,  while  I portrayed. 
What  might  the  future  fill. 

My  turn  will  come  for  sleeping,  and  my  bed 
Of  darkness  formed  will  be  so  drear  and  dread. 
That  song  of  birds  my  ears  shall  waken  not; 

In  that  bleak  night,  you  will  pour,  0 my  Dove ! 

The  prayers,  the  tears,  the  flowers  my  grave  above. 
Which  I poured  o’er  your  cot. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


851 


SINCE  SILENTLY  ARE  OPED 

Puisque  la-bas  s’ entr* ouvre  une  porte  vermeille 

Since  silently  are  oped  the  pearl  gates  of  the  skies; 
Since,  yonder,  dawn  awakes  once  more  the  sea  and 
land, 

Like  to  a faithful  servant,  aye  the  first  to  arise 
And  through  the  house,  yet  slumbering,  more, 
bright  lamp  in  hand; 

Since  on  the  sleepless  fount  the  dawn-gleams  wax  and 
wane. 

Since  from  the  shuddering  woods  dark  dreams  of 
night  get  free, 

Urged  by  the  pure  calm  glance  of  heaven  which  the 
dim  plain 

Regards  full  drowsily ; 

Since  on  the  breathless  hills  the  strong  sweet  day  is 
born, 

I wander  through  the  meadows  sad  and  fresh  and 
sweet ; 

Hoping  perchance  to  find  a sweeter,  stronger  morn 
For  a yet  darker  night  which  nought  else  may  de- 
feat. 

What  lot  is  man’s ! This  life  is’t  but  some  monstrous 
freak  ? 

Ah  me!  beyond  the  dawn  broods  there  a brighter 
Light  ? 

All  trembles.  Nature  vast,  to  me  wouldst  thou  now 
speak 


In  the  soul’s  awful  night? 


852 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


ON  THE  CLIFFS 

Tu  souris  dans  Vinvisible 

0 sweet  Spirit!  you  smile,  I ween. 
Though  you  are  unfelt,  unseen; 

I sad  and  lone 

Feel  your  garment  floating  nigh, 

While  the  dark  waves  hurry  by. 

And  sob  and  moan. 

In  night’s  solitary  hours. 

Song  my  wounded  heart  outpours. 

The  rocks  among; 

And  the  air  around  me  brings 
Thrillings  of  your  angel  wings 
To  join  my  song. 

Of  poor  neighbouring  folk  my  dreams  — 
Born  beneath  those  roofs,  where  gleams 
The  wakeful  light  — 

Grizzled  beard,  or  golden  hair. 

What  do  the  deep  waters  care 
In  stormy  night? 

Those  by  others  lost  I weep, 

All  doth  one  same  sorrow  steep  — 

The  same  blow  shocks. 

Here  upon  this  iron  coast 
All  in  one  same  vessel  lost  — 

On  the  same  rocks. 

Captains  stout,  and  sea  boys  small, 

Whom  did  such  dear  voices  call, 

And  such  heart  prayer. 


THE  POEMS  OP  VICTOR  HUGO 


853 


They  are  mixed  in  ocean’s  space; 

Silver  fish  each  other  chase 
Amid  their  hair. 

’Neath  the  dark  waves,  without  slumber. 
See  them  in  the  deep  ooze  slumber, 
Marred  by  its  stain; 

Wide  their  mouths  are  — dreadful  sight. 
As  if  gaping  with  affright, 

Death’s  draught  they  drain. 

Pallid  wandering  ghosts  they  be. 

Whom  their  cottage  ne’er  shall  see, 

Nor  home  receive; 

Woods,  fresh  green,  of  beech  or  oak. 
Meadow,  flower,  their  chimney  smoke, 

At  golden  eve. 

In  their  eyes  the  senseless  wave. 

Which  doth  ever  flee  and  rave, 

While  winds  pursue. 

Doth,  sad  change,  the  land  replace. 

Paths  their  steps  shall  ne’er  retrace. 

Nor  eyes  shall  view. 

Ghosts  and  corpses,  wan  and  worn. 

These  from  port  to  port  are  borne 
By  ebb  and  flow. 

Dawn  they  never  more  shall  greet. 

Nor  shall  eve  its  music  sweet 
On  them  bestow. 

Yet  our  musing  fancy  rests 
’Mid  these  rocks  upon  those  guests. 

Of  th’  unknown  bourne ! 


854 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Through  the  shivering  sea  depths  gone, 
To  that  shadow  land  whence  none 
Hither  return. 

*Twas  the  husband,  ’twas  the  child. 
Called  their  names  with  voices  wild. 
And  boding  vows. 

When  at  eve  the  beacon’s  glare, 

Or  the  morning  torches’  flare 
Alarm  arouse. 

One  cries  — “ Soon  I hope  shall  all 
Safe  return  — James,  Peter,  Hal, 

Louis  and  John, 

August  next,  when  grapes  are  black;” 
But  the  night  wind  murmurs  back  — 

“ Vanished  and  gone  ! ” 

Says  another — “ ’Mid  the  storms, 
Closely  watch,  you’ll  see  the  forms 
Of  the  drowned  dead. 

When  the  eve  falls  then  they  come, 
Every  billow  is  a tomb. 

Whence  comes  a head.” 

’Tis  in  this  unbridled  main 
Souls  are  borne  to  heaven  again, 

Heaven’s  birds  of  bliss. 
Every  billow  is  a tomb, 

0 my  dove ! still  every  grave 
A cradle  is. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


855 


IN  VAIN  I SEARCH  LIKE  ONE  DIS- 
TRAUGHT 

J’ai  beau  comme  un  imbecile 

In  vain  I search  like  one  distraught. 

My  house  from  floor  to  floor. 

Till  I am  by  the  neighbours  thought 
As  one  whose  mind  gives  o’er. 

Vain  search,  for  she  is  dead,  is  dead, 

She  will  return  no  more; 

Alas ! for  ever  lost  and  fled, 

And  open  still  the  door. 

I start  when  rings  the  bell  — I own 
I hope  to  find  her  near. 

Glad  Autumn  days,  where  are  you  gone, 

0 God ! when  she  was  here. 

That  soul  has  ta’en  its  upward  flight, 

1 still  below  must  keep; 

To  stars  that  glitter  in  the  night 
I stretch  my  arms  and  weep. 

Pressed  ’gainst  the  window,  I repass 
In  dreams  the  days  of  yore: 

All  lost ! — that  good  sweet  heart,  alas 
Which  sang  — I have  no  more. 

LIGHT  ON  THE  HORIZON 
Je  songe,  un  clair  rayon  luit  sur  le  flot  sonore 

I dream;  a sunbeam  steals  across  the  wave; 

The  beacon,  whispering  “ Dawn ! ” his  torch  out- 
blows. 


856 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Fain  is  my  soul  to  know  what  no  one  knows. 

To  see  the  dawn  that  breaketh  from  the  grave. 

At  God’s  desire  doth  the  glad  spirit  flit 
Far  from  the  icy  corpse  its  earthly  home  ? 

What  is  the  ray  that  flickers  o’er  the  tomb, — 

Yon  star  that  smiles  from  the  dumb  infinite? 

Or  in  death’s  shadow  living  shall  we  lie, 

Striving  on  earth’s  loved  living  ones  to  call  ? 

Each  piercing  shriek  through  the  grave’s  sombre 
wall 

Sounds  but  a faint  vague  sigh. 

As  birds  of  passage,  swallows  fleet  and  free, 

Shall  man  ply  wing  toward  some  clear  azure  goal  ? 
Ah!  like  as  little  birds  shall  be  the  soul, 

Passing  death  o’er  even  as  they  pass  the  sea  ? 

All  speaks,  all  stirs.  To  its  depths  the  wood  doth 
cower ; 

' The  ox  resumes  his  yoke,  the  soul  its  sorrow ; 

O’er  hill  and  wave  smiles  blue  and  cold  the  mor- 
row. 

Blinding  the  star,  and  bidding  bloom  the  flower. 

This  life,  with  all  its  wealth  of  night  and  day, 

Is’t  worth  one  wandering  cloud  in  yonder  skies? 
0 birds,  that  from  black  boughs  pipe  melodies. 
With  me  what  would  your  lay? 

These  darkling  dreams  with  darkness  should  take 
flight. 

Surely!  Behold  the  plougher  tills  the  land. 

The  fisher  drags  full  nets  o’er  briny  strand; 

While  vainly  still  I dredge  the  vast  void  night. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


857 


God,  whom  we  question,  time  it  is  to  cease. 

Our  dreams,  our  doubts,  our  strifes,  are  nought  to 
Thee. 

The  abyss  is  soundless;  yet  Thy  mystery, 

If  man  were  fain,  would  let  him  live  in  peace. 

The  mariner,  whose  barque  is  on  the  wing. 
Weighing  the  anchor,  pipes  a cheery  tune; 

Old  ocean  lets  he  growl,  while  growling  ocean's 
boon 

Suffers  the  sailor  sing. 

SONG  OF  EXILE 

Proscrit , regarde  les  roses 

Exile,  mark  the  budded  roses. 

Morn,  that  wept  and  went  away, 

Left  them  blown,  to  gladden  May. 

Exile,  see,  the  bloom  uncloses. 

0, 1 dream 

Of  the  flowers  I sowed  one  day. 

Out  of  France  it  does  not  seem 
That  May  is  May. 

Exile,  mark  the  graves  around. 

With  the  kisses  of  her  doves 
May,  that  smiles  upon  their  loves. 

Wakes  to  life  each  grass-grown  mound. 

But  I dream 

Of  loved  eyes  I closed  one  day. 

Far  from  France,  I cannot  deem 
That  May  is  May. 


858 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Exile,  mark  the  sprouting  boughs, 
Boughs  wherein  are  hid  the  nests 
Filled  by  May  with  lint-white  crests 
And  innumerable  vows. 

1 am  dreaming 

Of  old  love-nests  far  away. 

Without  France  there  is  no  seeming 
Of  May  in  May. 


WEEPS  THE  EARTH  IN  WINTER’S  DAT 

En  hiver  la  terre  pleure 

Weeps  the  earth  in  winter’s  day, 

Cold  the  sun,  and  weak  and  dreary; 
Comes  full  late,  soon  goes  away. 

Of  his  visit  sick  and  weary. 

Grace  is  from  their  idyls  flown. 

Ah ! to  love ! — Sun  — let  us  try ! — 

“ Earth,  where,  are  your  roses  gone  ? 99 — 

“ Where  your  rays,  star  of  the  sky  ? 99 

Some  excuse  he  makes  for  flight  — 

Wind  or  clouds  — it  rains,  it  snows; 

“ See,  my  dear ! ” he  cries,  “ ’tis  night ! 99 
Which  he  makes  as  off  he  goes. 

Like  a lover,  who  each  day 

From  his  heart  the  fetters  breaks. 

And  not  knowing  what  to  say, 

Hastes,  and  off  himself  betakes. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


859 


IT  IS  A LITTLE  LATE  TO  SMILE  SO  BRIGHT 

II  est  un  peu  tard  pour  faire  la  belle 

It  is  a little  late  to  smile  so  bright, 

Queen  Marguerite;  wait  in  thy  field  awhile, 

And  the  green  grass  with  hoar  frost  shall  be  white. 

— Pilgrim,  cold  winter  comes, — still  must  I 

smile. 

It  is  a little  late  to  smile  so  bright, 

Sweet  Star  of  Eve ; wait  in  thy  heaven  awhile. 
Soon  will  all  rosy  rays  be  lost  to  sight. 

— Pilgrim,  night  comes, — still  brightlier  see  me 

smile ! 

It  is  a little  late  to  smile  so  bright, 

Proud  Soul  of  mine ; wait  in  thy  woe  awhile, 

And  one  shall  stay  thy  strong  wings5  heavenward 
flight. 

— Pilgrim,  Death  comes, — forever  shall  I smile. 


EXILE 

Si  je  pouvais  voir,  6 patrie 

If  I might,  0 ! my  native  land, 

Thy  almond  groves  and  lilies  see. 
And  tread  upon  thy  flowery  strand  — 
Ah  me! 

If  I might  — but,  0 father  mine. 

And  mother,  it  can  never  be  — 
Pillowed  upon  your  grave  recline  — 
Ah  me! 


860 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


If  in  your  cold  constraining  bier, 

I could  speak  to  you  noiselessly; 

Abel,  Eugene,  my  brothers  dear  — 

Ah  me! 

If  I was  able ; 0 my  dove ! 

And  thou,  her  mother  — quick  to  flee ; 

To  kneel,  to  fall  your  graves  above  — 

Ah  me! 

Oh ! towards  that  star  which  lonely  is. 

How  would  I stretch  — your  devotee  — 

My  arms ; — and  how  the  ground  would  bless  — 
Ah  me! 

Far  from  you  dear  ones!  when  I weep, 

I hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea ; 

Fain  would  I go,  but  here  must  keep  — 

Ah  me! 

Yet  if  dark  Fate,  which  clouds  enclose. 
Watching  my  steps  fall  wearily. 

Deems  the  old  Pilgrim  spent,  it  knows 
Not  me ! 


THE  TWO  SERAPHIM 

Le  sommet  est  desert , noir,  lugubre  inclement 

A barren  peak,  inclement,  petrified. 

By  precipices  fenced  on  every  side; 

The  region  landscape  one  vast  solitude; 

Eternal  winters  o’er  the  summit  brood, 

And  frequent  prints  of  naked  feet  are  seen. 
Marking  where  steps  before  mine  own  have  been 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


861 


Fetters  and  gyves  lie  round,  a grisly  sight. 

I stood  beneath,  and  gazed  upon  the  height. 

Two  Beings  passed  me  as  I waited  there; 

And  their  eyes  seemed  to  sparkle,  as  they  were 

Stars,  that  had  veiled  their  splendours  from  the 
view. 

Serving  for  lamps  to  that  mysterious  Two. 

One  was  austere,  the  other  mild  of  mood; 

They  walked  together  in  the  self-same  road. 

Low  murmuring,  this  “Believe/*  and  that  “Re- 
flect ” ; 

And  each  one’s  forehead  with  a scroll  was 
decked  — 

“ Conscience,”  and  “ Truth.”  I marvelled  at  the 
pair. 

Stirred  to  my  soul  to  witness  them  so  fair. 

Then  these  two  birds,  the  eagle  and  the  swan. 

Signed  to  me  to  arise,  and  clamber  on. 

I followed  them.  They  were  my  guard  and  guide. 

And  left  me  on  that  peak,  with  no  man  there  be- 
side. 


THE  REFUGEE’S  HAVEN 

Vous  voila  dans  la  froide  Angleterre 

You  may  doubt  I find  comfort  in  England, 
But,  there,  ’tis  a refuge  from  dangers ! 
Where  a Cromwell  dictated  to  Milton, 
Republicans  ne’er  can  be  strangers! 


862 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


THE  EDDY 

U n tourbillon  d'ecume  au  centre  de  la  bate 

A swirl  of  froth  amid  the  bay. 

Foamed  from  the  gulfs  below. 

Makes  ocean’s  self  appear  more  gay 
That  rocks  it  to  and  fro; 

An  alabaster  basin  wide. 

And  bordered  by  an  ebon  tide. 

What  is  it,  God,  Thou  shap’st  within 
That  snow-charged  urn,  so  white? 

What  pourest  Thou  at  dawn  therein? 

What  issues  thence  at  night? 

Seas  batter  it  with  surf  in  vain, 

Tempests  with  thunder,  clouds  with  rain. 

Unharmed  by  soilure  of  the  deeps, 

By  thunders  of  the  gale, 

For  evermore  the  eddy  keeps, 

Shunned  by  each  passing  sail, 

Its  place  unmoved,  its  whiteness  strange 
In  the  abyss  where  all  things  change. 

*Tis  there  that  little  children  lave 
Their  winglets  after  death, 

At  Christmas,  in  the  hallowed  wave, 
From  taint  of  mortal  breath; 

And  thence,  so  fishers  say,  they  fly 
To  live  as  angels  in  the  sky. 

For  me,  I deem  that  God  has  planned 
That  chalice,  fraught  with  light 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


863 


In  spite  of  over-shadowing  strand. 

In  whelming  seas’  despite. 

As  emblem  of  a soul  at  rest. 

Mid  passion’s  storms,  on  nature’s  breast. 

A WALK  AMONG  THE  ROCKS 
Le  soleil  declinait 

The  Sun  declined,  eve  quickly  to  pursue. 

Made  brown  th’  horizon:  on  a stone  to  rest 

An  old  man,  whose  remaining  days  are  few, 

Sat  musingly,  his  eyes  towards  the  west. 

An  aged  man,  a shepherd,  mountain  bred. 

Who  erst  young,  poor,  of  free  and  happy  mood. 

At  eve,  when  shades  were  o’er  the  mountain  spread. 
His  flute  made  merry  music  through  the  wood. 

Now  rich  and  old,  the  past  his  spirit  fills. 

Laborious  chief  of  a large  family; 

The  while  his  flocks  are  gathered  from  the  hills, 
Earth  he  forgets,  and  looks  but  on  the  sky. 

The  day  that  ends  is  worth  the  opening  days, 

The  old  man  mused  beneath  heaven’s  azure  copes ; 

The  boundless  ocean  stretched  beneath  his  gaze, 

As  at  the  gate  of  death  the  good  man’s  hopes. 

0 solemn  scene ! the  sea  that  ever  threats, 

Rocks,  winds  that  silent  now,  restrain  their  cries, 

The  old  man  looking  at  the  sun  that  sets, 

And  the  sun  looking  on  the  man  who  dies. 


864 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


WALK  ON  THE  ROCKS 

Dieu!  que  les  monts  sont  beaux 

Cord!  How  sublime  the  hills  with  golden  stains. 
How  full  the  seas  of  grace,  the  skies  of  light; 

I care  not  what  of  my  short  life  remains, 

I reach  the  Eternal  and  the  Infinite ! 

Tempests  and  passions,  from  my  soul  away ! 

Ne’er  yet  did  God  thus  in  my  heart  abide; 

The  sun  looks  on  me  with  bright  western  ray, 

The  sea  speaks  to  me  — I feel  sanctified ! 

Blest  be  alike  who  love  me  and  who  hate; 

Wisdom  our  spirits  doth  to  love  exhort; 

Fool  fame  to  seek  or  mysteries  debate; 

I nothing  do  but  love;  my  time  is  short. 

The  stars  rise  from  the  waves,  the  sun  declines. 
And  at  my  feet  resounding  billows  fall ; 

The  sinking  sun  in  all  his  splendour  shines  — 

Oh,  God ! how  great  the  soul,  and  man  how  small ! 

All  earthly  things,  fire,  air,  the  ocean’s  might. 

Of  the  Most  Holy’s  name  but  half  have  heard; 
They  scatter  words,  which  I alone  unite; 

Each  says  one  part,  but  I the  total  word. 

Abyss,  my  voice  like  yours  to  heaven  ascends; 

Ocean,  I dream ; mountains,  I pray  with  you ! 
Nature  is  incense  pure  that  never  ends; 

The  censer  I,  intelligent  and  true. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


865 


CONSCIENCE 

Oh!  qoique  je  sois , sur  la  greve 

Although  upon  the  shore  I seem 
A flake  of  foam  in  passing  flight; 

Although  my  life  is  but  a dream, 

Though  I am  only  dust  and  night ; 

Though  I am  but  a lump  of  clay, 

A worm  ’mid  other  human  worms, 

Crushed  ’neath  the  wheel  which  speeds  away, 
The  wheel  which  man  “ To-morrow  ” terms ; 

Though  beneath  Evil’s  fangs  I lie; 

Though  I am  scorned,  and  weak,  and  bare; 
Though  I am  made  of  misery, 

And  you  of  heavenly  azure  are ; — 

Dauntless  in  right  you  still  confide. 

Immovable  in  trust  and  faith ; 

Conscience ! my  sacred  help  and  guide. 

You  go  before  me  e’en  to  Death ! 

Ever  prepared,  you  march  before; 

You  lead,  I follow  your  command; 

Your  face.  Fate’s  veil  is  gathered  o’er  — 

The  lamp  of  God  is  in  your  hand. 

You  say,  “ Your  cross  you  must  abide ; 

Rise  up!  Here  is  no  resting-place.” 

You  say,  “ Your  soul  here  you  must  hide”; 
You  say,  “ Step  in  the  paths  I trace.” 

You  prefer  life  with  sorrows  steep, 

Mourning  and  gloom  the  friend  we  own; 


866 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


You  smile  when  I am  forced  to  weep. 

You  sing  when  I am  forced  to  groan. 

Lit  by  your  torch,  with  rapture  rife, 

I step  by  step,  serene  and  brave, 

Through  all  the  miseries  of  life. 

Pass  downward  to  the  silent  grave. 

ONLY  A DOG 

TJn  groupe  tout  a Vheure  etait  la  greve 

Just  now  a little  group  stood  on  the  shore, 

Keenly  some  prostrate  object  gazing  o’er. 

" ’Tis  but  a dying  dog,”  the  children  cry, 

And  at  their  feet  I saw  an  old  dog  lie. 

"It  has  been  so  three  days,”  the  women  said ; 

" Foam  from  the  shore,  waves  dashing  o’er  its  head : 
We  vainly  called  it;  it  seemed  deaf.”  " Let  be!  ” 
An  old  tar  said ; " its  master’s  out  at  sea.” 

A pilot,  from  his  window  looking  on. 

Said,  " The  dog  pines  because  its  master’s  gone. 
Look ! here  his  boat  comes  in ; but  ere  it  reach 
This  dog,  it  will  be  dead  upon  the  beach.” 

I stopt  and  stood  beside  the  wretched  beast, 

Which  stirred  nor  head  nor  body  in  the  least. 

Its  eyes  were  closed,  you  could  not  think  it  lived. 
Its  master,  as  the  evening  fell,  arrived. 

Himself  now  old,  but  fast  as  age  may  go 
He  sped,  and  the  dog’s  name  he  murmured  low. 
Opening  its  eyes,  which  death  was  clouding  o’er, 
The  dog  looked  on  its  master’s  face  once  more. 

For  the  last  time  it  wagged  its  poor  old  tail; 

Then  died. — ’Neath  eve’s  blue  vault,  serene  and  pale, 
Like  from  a cavern  a torch,  Venus  shone. 

"Whence  is  the  star?”  I said;  "the  dog,  where 
gone  ? ” 


TOUTE  LA  LYEE 
1888 


TOUTE  LA  LYRE 


TALA VEKA 

A Story  of  my  Father's  telling. 

C’est  a Talaveyra  de  la  Reine,  en  Espagne 

At  Talavera  in  the  west  of  Spain, 

The  English,  towards  the  close  of  the  campaign 
Formed  on  an  ancient  castle,  occupied 
One  day  the  southern,  we  the  northern  side. 

There  were  two  slopes  enclosing  a ravine; 

The  fight  had  raged  since  morning;  smoke  between, 
In  monstrous  patches,  such  as  mask  a fray, 

Tarnished  the  sun's  light  and  defaced  the  day; 

And  he,  the  orb  that  gilds  those  dawns  of  his  — 

Old,  yet  young  always,  as  old  Homer  is  — 

He,  the  same  sun  Achilles  saw  of  yore. 

Was  taking  vengeance;  he  began  to  pour 
On  us  who  fought,  made  deaf  by  the  loud  thuds 
Of  the  mad  cannonade,  the  blinding  floods 
Of  his  far-spreading  beams,  dazzling  the  view; 
Sultry,  supreme,  his  lurid  radiance  threw 
Across  our  human  thunders  heaven's  vast  light. 
Scorching  us  up  with  a malignant  blight. 

King  Charles  the  Fourth  — “ Don  Carlos  ” — and 
Godoy 

His  minister,  designing  our  annoy. 


870 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Had  brought  the  English  army  on  our  backs ; 

Who,  being  unfitted  for  these  mountain-tracks, 

Were  parched  no  less  than  we.  ’Twas  cruel  work. 
There  was  no  verdure,  save  where  seemed  to  lurk 
At  bottom  of  the  hollow  a thin  screen 
Of  the  Aleppo  pine;  and  there-between 
A water-thread  was  hardly  seen  to  glide, 

And  the  trees  bordered  either  valley-side  — 

As  an  eye’s  lashes  mark  out  lid  from  lid  — 

Shading  small  rills  by  their  own  pebbles  hid. 

We,  like  seed  scattered  in  the  teeth  of  storms, 
French  upon  English,  flung  ourselves  in  swarms. 

The  grape-shot  rained;  we  trampled  under  foot 
Morsels  of  limbs  — heads  — bodies,  like  red  fruit ; 
While  over  piles  of  carnage  blazed  the  sun. 

Sabre  and  musket,  bayonet  and  gun  — 

We  took  them  as  they  came;  ’twas  natural; 

But  torrid  heat  to  top  them  — that  passed  all ! 

We  were  athirst.  Iron  and  lead  mean  death. 

But  thirst  means  hell.  Thirst,  sweat,  the  sky’s  hot 
breath  — 

’Twas  madness ! Yet  we  never  ceased  to  kill. 
Fagging  at  slaughter  with  a right  good  will; 

The  slain,  already  stiff  and  turned  to  stone, 

Lay  interspersed  with  men  who  held  their  own. 

Suddenly  I perceived  the  water-thread ! 

A Spaniard  saw,  and  cried,  “ The  devil  is  dead ! ” 

A Scot  bestrode  it,  face  to  face  with  me; 

A Frenchman  followed  us  — then  two  — then  three ; 
We  left  off  fight;  we  dropped  upon  our  knees, 

Game  to  begin  afresh,  whene’er  you  please ; 

The  wounded,  limping,  threw  themselves  upon  it. 
Pledging  each  other  in  a blood-stained  bonnet; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


871 


“ Here’s  to  your  health/*  quoth  I ; “ and  here’s  to 
yours ! ” 

And  we  hob-nobbed,  like  New-Year’s  visitors. 

Back  to  the  fight ! Now,  no  more  time  for  drinking ! 
War  to  the  knife! 


And  I remember  thinking  — 

“ You  monarchs,  you  rash  folk  who  govern  others  — 
You  make  men  enemies,  whom  God  made  brothers.” 


THE  MARABOUT  PROPHET 
Fuyez  au  mont  inabordable ! 

Flee  to  the  clefts  of  earth ! to  the  steep-fenced  hill- 
top flee! 

A perilous  nation  comes  from  the  coasts  of  the  north- 
ern sea. 

They  shall  have  good  captains:  they  shall  march 
across  the  plain. 

Their  shipmen  shall  be  good : they  shall  pass  over  the 

main. 

They  shall  come  with  banners : they  shall  come  with 
chariots,  and  guns; 

The  hoofs  of  their  horsemen  shall  rage  like  the  blast 
of  the  terrible  ones. 

They  shall  cry  as  an  eagle  freed,  “ Behold  us  at  the 
last! 

Your  men  shall  die  by  the  sword : your  women  shall 
die  by  fast.” 


872 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Ye  shall  see  them  in  the  night-time  by  the  glow  they 
shed,  and  the  gleam; 

Like  the  noise  of  the  sea-waves  shall  the  sound  of 
their  coming  seem. 

They  shall  have  as  it  were  wings:  they  shall  fly  in 
the  midnight  heaven. 

In  number  more  than  the  sparks  of  a thatch  that 
burns  at  even. 

They  shall  have  hate  in  their  hearts,  and  a two-edged 
sword  in  their  hands. 

O walk  not  in  your  ways!  0 go  not  forth  on  your 
lands ! 

For  nought  in  our  fathers’  fields  shall  be  heard,  but 
the  trumpet’s  bray. 

And  nought  shall  be  seen  but  spears,  their  spears  in 
battle  array. 

They  shall  come  with  shouting  and  laughter;  with 
countless  wheels,  and  with  smoke. 

A mighty  host  shall  they  be;  they  shall  be  a fierce- 
faced folk. 

But  let  God’s  face  in  the  tumult  appear,  who  shakes 
the  skies, 

And  they  shall  vanish  together,  as  a dream  of  morn- 
ing flies. 


f 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


873 


THE  WAR  OF  1871 

Vents,  souffles  du  zenith  obscure  et  tutelaire 

Winds,  airs  from  distant  heaven  that  covers  all* 
Have  you  not  some  large  anger  at  your  call. 

High  in  the  frowning  skies,  to  succour  us? 

Now  that  you  see  two  peoples  coming  thus 
To  blows,  because  two  kings  have  fallen  out ; 

Now  that  green  fields  where  lizards  run  about, 
Where  the  dawn  smiles,  where  crickets  bask  at 
noon, 

Are  at  the  point  to  see  blind  Ate  soon 
Pass,  brandishing  her  arrow-laden  hands; 

Now  that  the  dried-up  streams  of  stony  lands 
To-morrow  are  to  run  with  streams  of  blood, 
While  hinds  lie  cowering  in  their  homes  of  mud; 
Now  that,  if  no  one  clutches  this  crowned  pair  — 
Hun  and  Numidian  — suddenly  by  the  hair. 

We  are  to  hear,  caused  by  the  whims  of  kings. 
The  piercing  sound  of  mothers’  sorrowings, 

Mark  the  two  hosts  engage  in  strife  accurst. 

And,  after  mutual  hate  has  done  its  worst, 

The  savage  victors  haste  like  beasts  of  prey 
Men  — brother,  husband,  son  and  sire  to  slay, 
While  women  crossing  arms  before  their  breasts 
Fly  from  the  embraces  of  these  murderous 
pests  — 

Now  the  gulf  yawns  to  suck  two  nations  in, 

Will  you  do  nothing,  Winds,  to  avert  this  sin? 

O you  who  penetrate  the  depths  of  night. 

You  who  disperse  yourselves  and  reunite 


874  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

Quicker  than  lightning,  as  you  list,  on  high, 

Dark  summoners  — across  these  lands  that  sigh, 

At  this  last  moment,  to  compose  these  odds, 

•Will  you  not  bring,  ye  Winds,  the  formidable  Gods? 


WOODNOTE 

Je  ne  vois  pas  pourquoi  je  ferais  autre  chose 

I do  not  know  any  thing  left  for  the  doing, 

Save  to  dream  beneath  trees  when  the  stock-doves  are 
cooing, 

And  hear  the  wheels  creak,  as  the  waggons  roll  by : 

When  the  girls  carry  baskets  along  to  the  spring. 

They  open  their  ears  to  the  songs  that  I sing, 

As  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  frondage  I lie: 

For  the  thicket  supplies  me  with  flowers  beyond 
counting. 

And  for  me  ’tis  enough  through  the  shade  to  send 
mounting 

The  song  to  the  hearer,  the  bird  to  the  sky. 


MOONRISE 

Quand  la  June  apparait  dans  la  brume  des  plaines 

When  the  moon  rises  o’er  the  mist-clad  plain. 
When  the  stirred  shade  resumes  its  vocal  powers. 
When  evening  rustlings,  evening  airs  again 
Fill  the  blurred  woodland  bowers; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


875 


When  with  his  musical  bell  the  ox  comes  home, 

Like  some  old  poet,  noble,  worn  and  staid, 

Whose  accents  at  the  entrance  of  the  tomb 

Sound  on  through  deepening  shade; 

Then  let  us  wander  where  the  valley  leads, 

Saunter  knee-deep  in  grass  with  noiseless  tread, 
And  watch  the  star-strewn  vault.  ’Tis  from  these 
meads 

We  see  the  heavens  outspread. 

Through  the  green  land  together  let  us  go, 
Mourning  for  what  is  reft  us.  So  best  blows 
The  soul-flower,  made  to  bloom  by  earthly  woe 
Above  the  night-blowing  rose. 

There  let  us  whisper  of  things  infinite, 

How  all  is  great,  all  wise,  though  all  be  dim ; 
Opening  our  hearts,  beneath  the  azure  height, 

To  catch  the  sphere-born  hymn. 

’Tis  at  this  hour  stars  shine  and  beauty  beams; 

Your  softer  graces  shall  amaze  mine  eyes ; 
Dreaming,  let’s  blend  the  trouble  of  our  dreams 
With  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The  deep  calm  eve  makes  but  a single  prayer 
Of  all  the  rumours  of  the  night  and  day. 

Of  all  the  torments  of  this  life  of  care 
Make  we  but  one  love-lay. 


876 


THE  POEMS  OE  VICTOR  HUGO 


ANCIENT  AND  MODERN 
A Guernsey  Eclogue. 

TJn  journal!  Donnez-moi  du  papier,  que  j’ecrive 

The  paper!  No,  the  inkstand!  let  me  write 
A letter. — Is  the  postman  yet  in  sight  ? 

How  late  he  is  to-day ! Wind,  fog  and  rain ! 

And  this  is  June!  Just  light  the  fire  again. — 
How  glum,  how  peevish  looks  the  country  round! 
That  huge  black  cloud  is  very  near  the  ground. 
The  day  lowers  heavily;  the  sky  seems  low; 

And  three  and  three  proceed  along  the  Row, 
Buttoned  up  tightly  in  thick  comforters. 
Water-befuddled  — the  Teetotallers ! 

They  are  young  people,  most  of  them  — not  yet 
Twenty  years  old ; and  all  the  while  they  let 
Betsy  and  Meg  and  ’Liza  stand  and  stare. 

And  gaze  on  life  with  puritanic  air. 

The  water  they  have  tippled,  I suppose. 

In  a hymn-tune  pours  from  each  droning  nose. 
There  was  a time  when  spring  was  all  divine; 

In  his  cave  snored  Silenus,  full  of  wine ; 

Crisp  May-day  shivered  to  the  touch  of  Morn; 
The  magic  flute  piped  to  the  georgic  horn; 
Streams  leaped,  airs  gambolled;  with  a stifled  hiss 
The  wanton  adder  scared  poor  Thestylis ; 

Peacocks  in  sunshine  spread  their  various  eyes. 

And  the  Nine  Muses,  meteors  in  the  skies. 

Swam  between  earth  and  cloudland,  hovering. 
Singing  sweet  music,  in  the  evening; 

The  while  in  every  azure  space  between  — 

Lamps  of  the  twilight-hour  — the  stars  were  seen ; 
And  Virgil  seated  on  the  Coelian  Hill, 

Moschus  from  Syracuse,  the  weeping  rill, 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  877 

The  flocks,  the  slumbers  under  poplars  tall. 

The  woods,  the  flowers,  attendant  at  their  call. 

With  Amaryllis  and  Phyllodoce 
Joined  in  their  high  mysterious  ministry. 

ROMAN  REMAINS 

Un  monument  romain  dans  ce  vieux  pre  normand 

There  is  a ruined  Roman  monument 
In  this  old  Norman  meadow.  Children  come. 
Making  a jolly  din,  at  sunrise  thither; 

Driving  from  Dieppe  to  Havre,  you  pass  by  it. 

A shepherd  swain  who  sits  by  the  roadside 
Will  take  you  to  it,  or  will  follow  you 
With  outstretched  hand;  the  hamlet,  not  far  off, 
Smokes  through  the  foliage,  and  you  hear  the  cocks 
Crow  in  the  boughs.  “ There  it  is,”  says  the  shep- 
herd; 

And  you  see  nothing;  only  stones  and  bushes. 

But  if  you  stoop  a little,  and  look  close, 

You  can  distinguish  in  the  grass,  where  June 
Is  all  aflaunt  with  insolent  gaiety. 

Old  sculptured  frieze-tablets,  trophied  reliefs, 
Tower-bearing  monsters,  chariots  armed  with 
scythes. 

Soldiers  — no  terrors  to  the  swallow-flight  — 
Besieging  some  dim  fortress  in  the  flowers; 

And  can  discern,  wrapped  in  a shroud  of  creepers, 
Great  Caesar  musing  sadly  and  alone, 

Grim  Dacian  profiles  charged  with  hate  and  scorn. 
And  shadow,  and  I know  not  what  beside 
That  was  the  Roman  Eagle. 


878 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


WILD  AND  GARDEN 

0 poete!  pourquoi  tes  stances  favorites 

Poet,  why  are  thy  cherished  phrases 
Still  for  ever  of  plucking  daisies, 
Bindweed  ever  and  cornflowers? 
Wherefore  under  the  silent  firs 
Hard  by  streams  do  they  take  their  seat, 
Letting  over  their  naked  feet 
Cress-weed,  tress-like,  trickle  for  ever? 
Why  fields  always,  and  gardens  never  ? 
Whence,  0 dreamer,  this  uncouth  scorn? 
Wherefore  fly  from  the  turf  close  shorn. 
Gravel  walks  with  their  trim  box  edges, 
Star-shaped  flower-beds  and  dipt  hedges  ? 

I made  answer  — I must  go  hence. 
Fancy  is  routed  by  gate  and  fence. 
Freedom  follows  the  rough  plough-share, 
Laughs  beneath  the  liberal  air, 

Springs  upon  the  uncultured  sod. 

Man  made  gardens,  the  meadows  God. 


A SIMILE 

Qui  done  mele  au  neant  de  Vhomme  vicieux 

There  are  mingled  in  our  clay,  though  faulty  from 
our  birth, 

Some  splendours  of  the  sky  — some  virtues  of  the 
earth. 

Thy  hearth,  that  fires  the  leafy  night  afar, 
Resembles  thee,  0 man  — riddle  without  reply! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


879 


For  a spark  lives  in  thine  embers,  and  there  gleams 
on  high, 

Amid  thy  smoke,  a star. 

BIRD  AND  BABE 

Aucune  axle  ici-las  riest  pour  longtemps  posee 

Nought  that  has  wings  can  settle  here  below. 

When  she  was  small  she  had  a tame  red-breast, 
Fed  it  with  dewdrops  and  with  crumbs  of  bread, 
And  like  an  infantas  cradle  watched  its  nest. 
One  evening  it  escaped.  What  bitter  woe! 

She  ran  to  embrace  me  and  be  comforted. 

Leave,  little  maidens,  leave  your  birds  to  fly: 

And  you,  young  mothers,  watch  your  children  die. 

That  which  God  veils  we  shall  find  out  one  day ; 

It  is  Heaven’s  law  that  nothing  should  abide. 
Well,  she  grew  up.  Alas,  life  flies  so  fast ! 

She  had  one  infant,  her  delight,  her  pride : 

One  night  — sad  fate  of  things  that  fade  away  — 
Without  one  sob  or  pang,  the  baby  passed. 

Leave,  little  maidens,  leave  your  birds  to  fly; 

And  0 young  mothers,  watch  your  children  die! 


THE  GOLDEN  RULE 

Si  le  sort  fa  fait  riche , axe  an  hien  fame  prompte 

If  Heaven  have  given  thee  wealth,  cherish  a mind 
Prompt  to  do  good ; be  humble,  patient,  kind ; 

Thy  too  invidious  eminence  redeem 
By  self-abasement;  quit  thy  self-esteem, 

Come  down,  and  God  shall  meet  thy  soul  half  way. 


880 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Let  the  poor  oxen  have  their  hour  of  sloth 
Who  plough  the  soil  for  thee.  Be  ever  loath 
To  waken  up  too  roughly  even  a slave; 

A senator  in  purple  laticlave 

Have  pity  on  the  poor  in  disarray. 

Serve  him  who  serveth  thee.  Perchance  his  lights 
May  equal  thine.  Think  that  he  has  his  rights 
As  thou  thy  duties.  Treat  indulgently 
The  poor  and  lowly.  Such  a master  be 
As  thou  thyself  would’st  glory  to  obey. 


BIRDS  AND  POETS 
Ecoutez  la  voix  touchante 

If  a poet,  strangely  smiling. 

Or  a bird  of  heaven  sings 
Aught  to  move  thee,  hear  it,  hear  it ; 

Theirs  are  voices  unbeguiling; 

Listen,  for  the  bird  has  wings, 

And  in  bards  there  breathes  a spirit. 

When  thy  head  is  hot  with  wine : 

While  thou  mark’st  the  story  told 
In  thine  ears  by  vanity : 

When  thou  worship’st  at  the  shrine 
Of  those  triple  statues  cold, 

Pleasure,  Pride,  and  Luxury : 

While  with  knitted  brows  thou  trailest 
Some  ideal  in  thy  train, 

Harrowing  thine  own  life-plot: 

While  instinctively  thou  halest 
Down  the  common  human  lane 
Some  huge  lumbering  chariot : 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO  881 

While  mankind,  in  gloom  or  glee. 

Do  a hundred  sorry  things 

Fit  to  make  us  vail  our  eyes. 

Overhead  we  all  may  see 

Thoughts  of  poets  and  birds5  wings 
Flash  together  in  the  skies. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Shakespeare,  s’echappant  au  milieu  des  huees 

Shakespeare  emerging  from  the  shouting  crowds 
Rises,  a stormy  presence,  wrapped  in  clouds. 

The  work  of  this  dark  poet  is,  in  sooth. 

So  strongly  great  in  its  enormous  truth, 

So  full  of  giddy  heights,  of  dizzy  deeps. 

And  glowing  lights  expanding  on  the  steeps. 

So  fertile  in  abysses  unexplored. 

That  thinkers  for  three  hundred  years  have  pored 
Upon  his  vastness,  viewing  with  surprise 
How  every  thing  to  him  leads  back  their  eyes. 

As  to  a mountain-peak  that  towers  apart, 

Rooted  profoundly  in  the  human  heart. 


TO  A FRIEND 

Uautre  jour , ami  cher,  ami  de  vingt  annees 

The  other  day,  dear  friend  of  twenty  years, 

The  while,  anticipating  better  hours. 

You  pondered  on  the  state,  its  hopes,  its  fears, 

I watched  your  babes  at  play  among  the  flowers. 

Of  age  unequal,  but  alike  most  dear, 

The  elder  on  the  younger  smiled  with  love; 


882 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Three  innocent  maidens,  by  a day-beam  clear 
Of  your  large  spirit  quickened  from  above. 

Among  the  opening  blossoms  bathed  in  dew 

They  played,  they  laughed,  a laughter  without 
guile; 

Of  earthly  things  that  suit  with  roses  two 
Are  tears  of  morning,  and  an  infant’s  smile. 

Bright  brows  where  all  is  glad,  where  nought  is 
gloom  I 

With  swelling  heart  I watched  them  at  their  play, 
I,  whose  whole  life  is  centred  on  the  tomb 
Of  my  own  darling  who  has  passed  away. 

Cheered  by  your  pleasure  I forgot  my  sorrow ; 

With  soul  collected  and  serene  I prayed 
God  would  fulfil  your  wishes  for  their  morrow; 

And  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I said  — 

Joy  be  your  portion,  friend,  in  charms  like  theirs. 

In  the  unfolding  of  their  loveliness! 

IJpon  your  threshold,  undisturbed  by  cares, 

Their  grace,  their  beauty  day  by  day  increase ! 

This  solace  is  your  due ; for  such  as  they 
Can  comfort  us  at  times  in  life’s  eclipse ; 

And  from  your  own  renown  you  turn  away 
To  listen  to  the  music  of  their  lips. 

Meeting  with  praise  abroad,  at  home  with  love, 

A spirit  profound,  a victor  in  debate, 

’Twixt  little  children  and  high  duties  move 

Through  truth  and  right  the  circles  of  your  fate. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


883 


Oh,  when  your  hours  are  clouded  with  annoy. 
Look  onward,  onward  to  the  prospect  sweet 
Of  three  bright  faces,  of  three  springs  of  joy 
Bising  to  sight,  0 father,  at  your  feet ! 


THE  KEFUGEE 

J’ai  mene  parfois  dure  vie 

I have  been  leading  a life  of  care, 
Grieving,  wandering  here  and  there. 

An  exile,  casting  an  eye  of  envy 
Toward  the  inscrutable  sepulchre ; 

I have  been  travelling  long  afoot. 
Marching  at  night,  scared  by  a hoot, 
More  overwhelmed  with  fears  and  shadows 
Than  is  the  heart  of  the  forest  brute. 

Ye  who  are  worsted  in  civil  stress, 

Evil  awaits  you,  succourless. 

At  evening  I have  walked  through  cities 
As  men  traverse  a wilderness. 

Lonely  and  friendless,  counting  o’er 
What  was  left  of  a dwindling  store, 

I watched  the  passers  in  the  twilight 
Coming  and  going  evermore. 

Splashed  by  the  puddles  of  the  street. 
Wearied,  stretched  on  an  old  park-seat, 

I watched  the  faces  through  the  windows 
Kindled  to  warmth  by  the  fireside  heat. 


884 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Like  Tully  leaving  each  well-known  spot, 
I went  forth,  seeking  I knew  not  what ; 

A foreigner  is  like  a phantom; 

The  very  buildings  know  him  not. 

At  war  with  seas,  with  the  seawind, 

And  shadow  in  which  abides  mankind, 

At  war  with  man,  at  war  with  heaven. 

At  peace,  at  peace  in  my  own  mind. 

Comfort  this  to  my  grieving  gave; 

To  mourn  is  good,  to  bear  is  brave; 

The  treasure  house  of  expectation 
Is  opened  by  the  key  of  the  grave. 

I was  assured  that  come  what  may, 

I was  an  honest  man  at  bay; 

And  that  the  oak  trees  and  rock-ridges 
Could  not  hate  me,  for  what  I say. 

Round  me  came,  an  attendant  swarm. 
Verse,  in  many  a winged  form. 

Whirling  wildly,  with  hair  dishevelled. 
Blown  about  by  the  midnight  storm. 

Past  planets,  to  the  flaming  sphere 
I set  my  spirit  to  sing  clear; 

Only  a caitiff  need  be  silent ; 

Creation  should  not  choose  but  hear. 

I know  not  what  the  winds  conveyed 
In  answer  to  the  songs  I made. 

I supped  upon  the  fruit  of  brambles 
And  slept  beneath  the  hazel  shade. 


THE  POEMS  OE  VICTOR  HUGO 


885 


THE  SPIKIT-WORLD 
A Vheure  oil  le  soleil  se  couche 

When  at  eve  the  sun  is  sinking. 

And  I wander  in  the  shade, 

Lonely,  gloomy,  smiling,  thinking, 

Ranging  through  the  forest  glade. 

When,  the  oft-read  volumes  tossing 
In  a heap  beside  the  blaze. 

One  knee  o’er  the  other  crossing. 

Deaf  to  all  discourse  I gaze, 

“ Does  he  dream  ? 99  you  say : “ What  is  it  ? 99 
Yes,  I dream.  Those  skies  I see. 

Which  ideal  stars  revisit, 

Looming,  lowering  over  me. 

There,  within  the  darksome  spaces 
Whence  the  day-beams  disappear, 

I behold  mysterious  faces 
To  my  fancy  drawing  near. 

And  there  greet  me  revelations  — 

Voices,  phantoms,  visions,  sighs  — 

From  that  world  of  expectations 
Which  we  nickname  memories. 

There  sepulchral  realms  before  me 
Open  to  the  aching  sight; 

Father,  mother,  brooding  o’er  me 
In  the  silence  of  the  night; 

And  I feel  a seraph  hover  — 

Thee,  my  daughter  — near  me  there, 


886  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

By  the  gentle  breathing  of  her. 

And  the  shiver  in  my  hair. 

And  beneath  the  homely  ceiling, 

And  behind  the  haunted  tree. 
Present  only  to  the  feeling, 

Spirits  fix  their  gaze  on  me. 


WANDERING 

Je  ne  m’arrete  pas , jamais  je  ne  sejourne 

Never  to  halt,  never  to  stand  at  ease  — 

When  the  tide  turns,  my  speechless  wayfellow. 

To  cry  to  the  wind,  Forward!  and  when  the  breeze 
Shifts,  to  the  tide  to  say  — On  let  us  go ! 

— This  is  my  lot ; and  the  storms  evermore 

Whirl  me  along.  Love  thine  own  loves,  0 man! 

Sit  on  the  bench  of  stone  beside  thy  door. 

And  let  thy  days  finish,  as  they  began. 

Happy  the  home-bred  youth,  of  homely  wit, 

Who  every  evening  of  his  life  perceives 

The  self-same  bat  at  the  same  instant  flit 
Prom  the  same  angle  of  his  cottage  eaves. 

THE  EXILE’S  RETURN 

Tu  rentreras  comme  Voltaire 

To  thy  Paris,  like  Voltaire, 

Full  of  years  again  repair; 

Midst  its  beauty,  sport  and  jest 
Sojourn,  an  unwilling  guest. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


887 


On  thy  deathbed  they  will  love  thee; 
As  each  morning  breaks  above  thee 
Murmuring  at  thy  half-closed  gate 
Some  “ Already  ? 99  some  “ Not  yet ! 99 

Greybeard  thou  and  child  at  once, 
Good  enough  to  seem  a dunce. 

Think  thyself,  in  honest  joy, 

Dunce  enough  to  be  a boy. 


THE  TJNWORDED  AVOWAL 

Uenigme  ne  dit  pas  son  mot 

Riddles  do  not  let  their  answers  out. 

Golden  arrows  may  inflict  a prick 
They  who  feel  it  will  not  talk  about; 

Often,  where  the  branches*  shade  is  thick. 

Tender  birds  have  perished,  not  a few. 

You  have  often  said  you  cared  for  me, 

And  I never  said  as  much  to  you ; 

Star-lit  waters  hide  their  mystery, 

Silent  lakes  beneath  the  moon  conceal 

Dreams  of  heaven  in  darkness  undispelled; 
You  were  lavish  of  the  last  appeal, 

The  supreme  avowal  I withheld. 

Did  you  deem  my  silence  was  to  blame? 

Speechlessness  implies  a sinking  heart ; 

But  the  thrill  of  pleasure  when  you  came. 

Had  it  not  some  meaning  to  impart  ? 


888 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


You  professed  too  much,  too  little  I. 

Love  commences  with  a shade  of  grey; 

All  things  have  their  seasons  to  be  shy ; 

Nests  of  birds  are  flouted  by  broad  day. 

Now,  this  evening  — look,  the  tree-top  sways 
In  the  evening  breeze,  how  mournfully ! 

You  forsake  me;  for  you  could  not  gaze 
Past  my  silence,  to  the  soul  of  me. 

Yes,  the  time  is  come  for  us  to  part. 

Hark ! the  forest  moans,  how  drear  the  while ! 
Morn,  that  finds  me  weeping  for  my  smart, 
Peradventure  will  behold  you  smile. 

Sweetest  words  “ I love  you  ” — words  we  ought 
Now  to  cancel,  wring  my  heart  to-day. 

More  than  once  you  said  them,  without  thought 
But  I thought  them,  when  I did  not  say. 


thekSse 

Moins  de  vingt  ans  et  plus  de  seize 

Less  than  twenty  and  past  sixteen. 

That  is  her  age;  and  therewith  say 
Her  name,  Therese:  quite  low,  I mean; 
And  think  of  heaven  at  break  of  day. 

What  lies  hid  in  her  future  lot? 

What  of  rapture?  What  of  despair? 
She  laughs  archly,  and  guesses  not. 

More  than  the  flower  in  her  hair. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


889 


She  has  auburn  ringlets  and  white  arms; 

She  has  little  frolicsome  feet; 

And  a clear-flowing  streamlet’s  charms 
* Are  in  her  aspect,  vaguely  sweet. 

Hers  is  a soul  in  rudiments; 

A blank  leaf,  to  be  filled  one  day ; 

A woman  in  outline,  a heart’s  Contents ; 
The  plot  of  a drama  yet  to  play. 

Innocently  she  laughs  and  talks ; 

Her  name-father  is  the  great  May-hap. 
Every  Sunday  she  takes  walks 

Arm  in  arm  with  a smart  young  chap. 

He  is  handsome,  and  she  is  pert; 

Pantin,  its  window-guards  let  down 
Sees  this  milliner- Venus  flirt 
With  this  Apollo  of  the  town. 

Like  a swan  she  plumes  her  wings; 

And  her  babblement,  and  her  tresses. 
And  her  smile,  are  just  the  things 
Fit  for  the  silvan  wildernesses. 

Look  at  her  as  she  passes  by ; 

You  would  suppose  she  “ loves  a knight,” 
To  see  her  gaze,  straight  at  the  sky. 

With  blue  eyes,  so  frank,  so  bright. 

These  white  goddesses  in  coarse  plaids. 
Garret  nymphs  with  features  fine. 

Have  the  freedom  of  fisher-maids. 

And  the  grace  of  seraphs  divine. 


890  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

They  go  singing  wonderful  hymns 

Made  up  of  sunny  days  and  glooms; 

And  their  penury  Love  trims 

With  all  the  purples  of  his  plumes. 

LOVE  IN  AUTUMN 
Oarde  a jamais  dans  ta  memoire 

Keep  evermore  with  thee, 

Keep  without  fail 

The  sweet  respect,  the  memory 
Of  our  love-tale. 

All  the  whole  past  comes  back 
Before  my  gaze: 

Your  footprint,  left  upon  the  track 
In  dim  wood-ways; 

The  fields,  the  tufts  that  edge 
Each  green  incline. 

And  your  white  skirt,  caught  by  the  hedge 
Of  eglantine. 

As  if  the  blooms  around 
Said  in  their  play 

“We  are  all  glad,  now  you  are  found; 
Don’t  go  away ! ” 

I see  the  branches  moved 
In  the  close  cover, 

Where  we  sat  musing,  you  the  loved 
With  me  the  lover; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


891 


Where  to  a conqueror’s 
Your  will  was  wrought ; 

Where  lips  of  mine  touched  lips  of  yours. 
Your  thought  my  thought. 

Come ! for  the  summer  air 
Grows  warm  once  more; 

Seek  we  the  fresh-trimmed  grotto,  where 
We  sat  before : 

There,  at  the  close  of  day 
When  all  things  rest, 

When  the  leaf  bends  to  embrace  the  spray. 
The  wing  the  nest, 

All  the  old  sweets  that  filled 
Our  days  of  bliss. 

Yet  thrilling  with  the  sight  that  thrilled 
To  our  first  kiss. 

The  gentle  inmates  all 
Of  the  deep  groves. 

Or  ever  slumber  on  them  fall. 

Tell  of  our  loves 

Redbreast  and  missel-thrush 
There,  as  they  sing. 

Green  water-cress  and  flowering  rush 
Below  the  spring, 

May-fly  with  wings  of  flame. 

Zephyr  and  stream 
Whisper  for  ever  your  loved  name 
As  in  a dream. 


892  THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

Morning  and  evening  both, 

Both  night  and  day, 

They  to  themselves  our  words  of  troth 
Say  and  re-say. 

There,  where  that  troth  was  plighted. 
Come  and  recline, 

My  lips  to  yours  again  united. 

Your  heart  to  mine. 


THE  JEWELLER'S  SHOP 

Que  fait  Vorfevre?  II  acheve 

What  is  the  goldsmith  fashioning? 

A mystery  — a gipsy  ring; 

Lit  with  vague  eyes,  his  workbench  seems 
A paradise  of  children's  dreams. 

The  opal  shows  an  eye  ball's  white ; 

The  turquoise  is  a look  of  light: 

The  fitful  fires  unceasing  blaze 
Within  the  ruby's  haggard  gaze. 

Under  the  emerald's  smooth  lid 
A bright-browed  water-nymph  lies  hid. 

— A lady's  eyes  I saw  at  Cette 
Were  like  the  sea,  but  greener  yet. 

The  diamond's  enshrouded  ray 
Faints  in  the  lustre  of  the  day; 

Stars  by  its  facets  are  so  glassed. 

That  into  it  a star  has  passed. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


893 


The  amber  is  a fossil  tear; 

The  sapphire,  shining  cold  and  clear. 

Became  sky-blue  beneath  the  sod 
With  dreaming  on  the  skies  of  God. 

A brightness,  as  of  woman’s  smile, 

Enters  the  goldsmith’s  shop  the  while; 

The  music  of  her  lips  keeps  time. 

As  if  with  wings,  to  some  old  rhyme. — 

Her  speaking  looks,  her  sparkling  words. 

Are  lights,  are  songs,  are  humming-birds; 

She  is  so  fair,  all  hearts  must  quake 
And  go  distracted  for  her  sake. 

Whither  and  whence  proceeds  she?  Nay, 
Whence  comes  the  dawn?  Where  goes  the  day? 
She  is  a rapture  — a love-spark 
That  lights  us,  even  in  the  dark. 

Out  in  the  street  the  people  gaze 
In  transport,  and  bestow  their  praise. 

Upon  herself  the  men-folk,  all; 

The  women,  on  her  cashmere  shawl. 

A star  they  call  her  — fay  or  queen; 

An  angel  out  of  heaven  above; 

They  feel  themselves  quite  full  of  spleen 
Toward  the  unknown  who  has  her  love. 

She  is  fair,  charming,  exquisite, 

Giddy  and  gay;  and  all  the  crowd 
Lay  down  their  arms  without  a fight. 

And  everybody  sighs  aloud  — 


894 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


“ I would  I were  ” — and  therewith  names 
His  loftiest  concept  of  joy; 

“ A friend  of  hers ! ” a youth  exclaims ; 

**  Her  husband ! ” says  a little  boy. 

What  is  this  woman  ? On  the  whole  — 

A woman.  Such,  when  limb  by  limb 
God  first  made  man  a living  soul. 

Came  next,  and  laid  her  spells  on  him. 


She  gathers,  from  the  jeweller’s  store. 

All  his  bright  gems  enchased  in  ore ; 

A fever-fit  is  in  the  gold 
Her  little  fairy  fingers  hold. 

She  takes  the  mall,  the  picaroon, 
Aquamarine,  like  dew  in  June, 

The  cameos  of  Lido’s  flat. 

And  the  red  agates  of  Surat. 

The  beryls  and  the  amethysts 

She  takes,  and  clasps  them  on  her  wrists ; 

A child-soft  laughter  from  her  breaks 
At  every  purchase  that  she  makes. 

But  the  pearl  looks  at  this  fair  girl  — 
Why  dost  thou  shrink,  thou  soft-eyed  pearl  ? 
It  answers,  “ I prefer  the  sea ; 

It  is  less  deep,  less  dire  than  she.” 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


895 


ROSAMUND 
II  etait  une  fois 
Once  on  a day 

There  was  a garden,  and  I saw  her  there. 

My  lady  Rosamund. 

All  sweetest  birds  that  fly  swarmed  in  the  air; 

In  shade  the  greenwood  lay. 

Once  on  a day 

There  was  a spring,  to  which  I bent  my  way 
To  drink  with  Rosamund. 

White  water-nymphs  were  diving  in  the  stream: 
Pearls  on  their  fingers  gleam. 

Once  on  a day 

There  was  a kiss,  the  which  all  tremblingly 
I took  from  Rosamund. 

“Look,  there  are  two  of  them,”  a nymph  laughed. 
“ Nay,” 

Another  answered,  “ three ! ” 

Once  on  a day 

There  was  a flower,  that  from  a heart  came  springing, 
The  heart  of  Rosamund. 

That  is  my  soul.  Darkling  I waste  away. 

Hearing  soft  voices  singing. 


GHOST-BALLAD  — THE  HOLLY-BOUGH 

Qui  done  etes-vous , la  belle 

0 and  who  may  you  be,  fair  may? 

What  do  they  call  you?  Tell  us  now. 


896 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


There  was  a maiden  here,  one  day; 

Bright  eyes  were  all  her  bravery. 

— That  fair  maiden  am  I,  quoth  she. 
Maidens,  gather  the  holly-bough. 

You  are  all  dressed  in  white,  fair  may ; 

What  may  your  name  be  ? Tell  us  now. 
Claud  made  love  to  her,  one  fine  day; 

Great  red  oxen  in  stall  had  he. 

— Claud  his  sweetheart  am  I,  quoth  she. 
Sweethearts,  gather  the  holly-bough. 

You  have  been  gathering  flowers,  fair  may; 
What  do  they  call  you?  Tell  us  now. 

Two  made  one  by  a kiss  were  they ; 

Winds  and  hearts  are  giddy  and  free. 

— Mine  was  the  heart  that  loved,  quoth  she. 
Lovers,  gather  the  holly-bough. 

You  have  been  weeping  sore,  fair  may; 

What  may  your  name  be?  Tell  us  now. 
A babe  was  born  to  her  — fast  and  pray ! 
Jesus  took  him  up  on  his  knee. 

— I am  the  mother,  answers  she. 

Mothers,  gather  the  holly-bough. 

You  are  very  pale,  fair  may; 

What  do  they  call  you?  Tell  us  now. 
Woe-begone  she  hurried  away. 

To  the  caves  where  screech-owls  be. 

— That  madwoman  am  I,  quoth  she. 
Madmen,  gather  the  holly-bough. 

Cold  are  you  as  the  grave,  fair  may; 

What  may  your  name  be?  Tell  us  now. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


897 


Nails  in  our  coffins,  as  men  say, 

Are  love-fancies  and  looks  of  glee. 

— She  that  is  dead  am  I,  quoth  she. 
Mourners,  gather  the  holly-bough. 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  ORDER 

Ouij  on  a sauve  Vordre  et  Vetat,  et  je  crois 

Yes,  order  and  the  state  are  saved  once  more. 
Just  as  they  were,  five  or  six  times,  before; 

The  steamer  is  just  starting  for  Cayenne; 

We  have  been  stepping  over  slaughtered  men. 
Or  wounded,  or  their  graves,  for  a full  week; 

We  are  used  to  it;  justice  has  been  quick; 

Men,  women,  children  have  been  done  to  death, 
Somewhat  at  random,  without  taking  breath. 

As  convicts  now,  swilling  the  prison  mess. 

And  dressed  like  convicts  in  the  prison  dress. 
Live  many,  who  aforetime  dug  the  grave 
Of  tyranny;  whom  Volga’s,  Ebro’s  wave, 

Tagus  or  Niemen,  witnessed,  name  by  name. 
Fill  the  wide  air  with  echoes  of  their  fame. 

“ Victory  ” — we  have  won  it  thoroughly ; 

To  save  the  country  from  the  enemy 
Paris,  five  months,  was  seething  with  the  rage 
Of  maddened  forests,  when  the  winds  engage; 
Was  roaring  like  a Libyan  hurricane; 

It  needed  to  be  silenced,  that  was  plain. 

What  a relief ! It  was  a hopeless  chance 
For  one  mad  city  to  deliver  France; 

Germany  mutters  “ Many  thanks  to  you ! ” 

Cafes  reopen,  and  the  churches  too. 

A bleeding  peace  issues  from  civic  stress; 


899 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Now  we  have  order  — and  one  town  the  less. 

Some  people  might  have  wished  for  fewer  dead; 

But  that  the  foam  should  fleck  a horse’s  head 
After  a race  — is  that  a thing  for  wonder  ? 

Bombs  are  not  more  dispassionate  than  thunder; 

In  such  rude  strife  we  pardon  a false  blow 
To  gods  above,  and  demigods  below. 

In  one  word,  we  are  saved.  From  all  throats  gush 
Enthusiastic  cheerful  shouts  of  “ Hush ! ” 

Nobody  is  to  think,  or  to  complain. 

’Tis  time  the  flowing  tide  should  ebb  again. 

The  wholesome  air  of  grave-yards  wither  all 
These  stormy  liberties  that  boom  and  brawl. 

Too  much  of  thunder,  tempest  and  clear  light 
Our  age  has  known;  and  it  is  good  and  right  — 

We  see  it  now  — that  a strong  saving  fist 
Should  issue  from  beneath,  and  grip  it  by  the  wrist. 
Society  so  dictates,  and  is  wise; 

Religion  sways  us;  our  salvation  lies 
In  Right  Divine,  and  in  the  Syllabus; 

The  people  are  at  best  superfluous. 

This  is  the  gist  of  our  great  “ victory  ” — 

The  slacking  of  a furnace-fire.  We  see 
Our  Eighty-nine  punished  for  Ninety-three. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


AUBADE 

L'heure  sonne,  un  jour  va  naitre 

The  clock  is  striking ; day  is  breaking ; 

A cloud  moves  up  the  sky ; 

The  swallow  in  her  nest  is  waking. 

The  boat  is  moored  hard  by. 

Love,  the  master,  night  and  day 
Wakes  within  thy  heart; 

Let  boat,  let  billow  drift  away. 

But  let  not  love  depart. 

At  times  the  chiming  of  the  hour 
Speaks  to  the  heart  that  grieves, 
Resounding  from  the  old  church  tower 
Through  twilight  of  the  leaves. 

Fair  or  foul,  the  hours  must  fly ; 

Never  a one  may  stay; 

Darling,  let  the  hour  go  by ; 

Let  love  not  pass  away. 

Is  there  aught  beneath  the  sun 
Unstirred  by  any  breeze  ? 

Bright  at  times,  but  often  dun. 

Are  both  clouds  and  seas. 

Gone,  the  cloud ! a voyage  drear. 
Without  port  or  shore. 

Let  the  cloud-wreath  disappear ! 

But  let  not  love  unmoor. 


902 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Pass  the  hour  — the  cloud  — the  tide ! 

We  too  pass  away. 

Let  one  thing  in  us  abide 
When  all  things  round  decay. 

From  her  soft  nest  on  turret  high 
The  bird  soars  out  of  sight ; 

Let  the  swallow  stoop  and  fly ! 

But  let  not  love  take  flight. 


ENVY  AND  AVARICE 

L’ Avarice  et  VEnvie 

Envy  and  Avarice,  one  summer  day. 

Sauntering  abroad 
In  quest  of  the  abode 

Of  some  poor  wretch  or  fool  who  lived  that  way  — 
You  — or  myself,  perhaps  — I cannot  say  — 

Along  the  road,  scarce  heeding  where  it  tended, 

Their  way  in  sullen,  sulky  silence  wended; 

For,  though  twin  sisters,  these  two  charming  crea- 
tures. 

Rivals  in  hideousness  of  form  and  features. 

Wasted  no  love  between  them  as  they  went. 

Pale  Avarice, 

With  gloating  eyes. 

And  back  and  shoulders  almost  double  bent. 

Was  hugging  close  that  fatal  box 

For  which  she’s  ever  on  the  watch 
Some  glance  to  catch 
Suspiciously  directed  to  its  locks ; 

And  Envy,  too,  no  doubt  with  silent  winking 
At  her  green,  greedy  orbs,  no  single  minute 
Withdrawn  from  it,  was  hard  a-thinking 
Of  all  the  shining  dollars  in  it. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


903 


The  only  words  that  Avarice  could  utter, 

Her  constant  doom,  in  a low,  frightened  mutter, 

“ There’s  not  enough,  enough,  yet  in  my  store ! ” 
While  Envy,  as  she  scanned  the  glittering  sight, 
Groaned  as  she  gnashed  her  yellow  teeth  with  spite, 

“ She’s  more  than  me,  more,  still  forever  more ! ” 

Thus,  each  in  her  own  fashion,  as  they  wandered, 
Upon  the  coffer’s  precious  contents  pondered, 

When  suddenly,  to  their  surprise. 

The  God  Desire  stood  before  their  eyes. 

Desire,  that  courteous  deity  who  grants 
All  wishes,  prayers,  and  wants; 

Said  he  to  the  two  sisters : “ Beauteous  ladies, 

As  I’m  a gentleman,  my  task  and  trade  is 
To  be  the  slave  of  your  behest  — 

Choose  therefore  at  your  own  sweet  will  and  pleasure. 
Honours  or  treasure ! 

Or  in  one  word,  whatever  you’d  like  best. 

But,  let  us  understand  each  other  — she 
Who  speaks  the  first,  her  prayer  shall  certainly 

Beeeive  — the  other,  the  same  boon  redoubled!  ” 

Imagine  how  our  amiable  pair, 

At  this  proposal,  all  so  frank  and  fair. 

Were  mutually  troubled ! 

Misers  and  enviers,  of  our  human  race, 

Say,  what  would  you  have  done  in  such  a case? 
Each  of  the  sisters  murmured,  sad  and  low : 

“ What  boots  it,  oh,  Desire,  to  me  to  have 
Crowns,  treasures,  all  the  goods  that  heart  can 
crave, 

Or  power  divine  bestow. 

Since  still  another  must  have  always  more  ? ” 


904 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


So  each,  lest  she  should  speak  before 

The  other,  hesitating  slow  and  long 

Till  the  god  lost  all  patience,  held  her  tongue. 

He  was  enraged,  in  such  a way. 

To  be  kept  waiting  there  all  day, 

With  two  such  beauties  in  the  public  road; 

Scarce  able  to  be  civil  even, 

He  wished  them  both  — well,  not  in  heaven. 

Envy  at  last  the  silence  broke. 

And  smiling,  with  malignant  sneer. 

Upon  her  sister  dear. 

Who  stood  in  expectation  by, 

Ever  implacable  and  cruel,  spoke: 

“ I would  be  blinded  of  one  eye  ? ” 


PEOMETHEUS  AND  OEPHEUS 

Apres  une  science  epuisee  et  lassee 

When  knowledge  is  exhausted  and  foredone. 
Opinion  comes,  asking  “ What  know  we  ? ” One 
Passes,  repeating  what  another  said; 

“ Wherefore?”  all  ask.  None  guesses  what  is  laid 
Behind  the  screen  of  heaven  — or  of  hell ; 

Our  exit  — or  our  entrance  — who  can  tell  ? 
Knowledge  and  will  — can  they  draw  back  the  bar 
Of  the  black  labyrinth?  Whatever  we  are. 

Whether  we  try  the  dead  or  living  state. 

The  will  itself  seems  followed  hard  by  fate. 

Upward  or  downward  — homeward  as  we  tend  — 
Which  is  our  goal  ? At  every  vista’s  end 
Are  gates  of  silence  and  phantasmal  eyes ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


905 


Stooping  and  shuddering  under  gloomy  skies, 

The  awe-struck  thinker  seeks  the  mystic  key 
In  the  stilled  horror  of  a star-shot  sea. 

And  all  these  thinkers,  hanging  in  suspense 
Over  the  gulf  that  bounds  this  world  of  sense. 

To  every  soul  that  passes  by  declare. 

As  in  a dream,  the  counsels  of  despair. 

“ To  supplicate  is  bootless.  Spare  the  cost 
Of  love,  that  may  be  won,  that  must  be  lost. 

Life  is  a riddle.  Sing  or  execrate, 

As  likes  thee  best,  what  matters  it  to  fate? 

Pride,  science,  eyes  of  peacock,  eye  of  lynx. 

All  fail  alike ; the  image  of  the  sphinx 
Borders  the  fearful  avenue  of  life. 

Where  man,  with  nature  and  himself  at  strife. 
Walks  tremblingly,  and  sees  a demon  glare 
In  every  deity  he  names  in  prayer.” 

Prometheus  sought  to  issue  from  this  shade. 

To  finish  what  the  Gods  but  half-way  made. 

To  toil,  to  teach,  to  civilize,  and  form 
Of  the  whole  world  one  dwelling,  bright  and  warm ; 
On  barren  rock  and  tangled  wilderness 
To  shed  the  smile  of  order  and  redress. 

To  clear  the  wild  waste  places  of  the  earth. 

And  to  give  life,  where  fate  had  given  birth. 

He  sought  to  hallow  home,  to  unclose  men’s  eyes, 
To  set  their  feet  on  steps  that  scale  the  skies. 

To  subject  nature  to  a human  yoke, 

To  cover  human  frailty  with  a cloak 

Made  of  heaven’s  blue,  broidered  with  stars ; to  wake 

A soaring  spirit  in  the  grovelling  snake 

That  rears  its  crest  and  calls  itself  Mankind ; 

Evil  to  chaos  among  thorns  to  bind; 


906 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


To  tend  a wire  of  gold  from  tree  to  town; 

To  pull  the  Gods  of  human  credence  down; 

To  found  a temple  in  the  heart  of  man, 

Where  reason  might  complete  what  he  began. 

Where  hell  might  evermore  be  closed  on  hate, 

And  law,  not  Atlas,  bear  the  universal  weight. 

The  Gods  have  punished  him.  Forlorn,  alone. 
Conquered  — an  awful  captive  — he  lay  prone. 
Lamented  by  the  daughters  of  the  sea, 

Bound,  mangled;  and  his  blood  was  drunk  by  me. 
Now  all  is  death;  and  in  the  rayless  fields. 

Against  the  bosses  of  Olympian  shields 
That  sparkle  on  the  heavenly  rampart,  vain 
The  efforts  both  of  Giants  and  of  men. 

Nevertheless,  so  long  as  in  the  sky 
Some  trace  of  air  remains,  the  bird  may  fly. 
Orpheus  departing  left  this  parting  word: 

“ Bird  that  hast  wings,  wings  may  upbear  the  bird. 
Bethink  thee,  will  is  power;  to  attain 
Is  nature’s  law;  the  fetters  that  constrain 
Doubtless  are  there ; till  they  are  snapped,  they  stay ; 
Yet  what  Prometheus  wrought  is  wrought;  the  ray 
Is  captured ; it  is  extant  on  the  earth ; 

Somewhere  it  burns ; mankind  can  give  it  birth 
A second  time;  can  mentally  exist; 

Can  grow  to  something  greater,  if  they  list; 

If  they  but  think,  weigh,  delve,  embrace,  aspire ; 

If  they  preserve  the  consecrated  fire 
Never  extinguished;  if  they  keep  in  sight 
That  the  idea,  once  set  aflame,  can  light 
Something  within  them  which  is  more  than  they; 
That  strive  they  must;  that  freedom  dawns  with  day; 
And  that  to  grasp  the  torch,  when  ways  are  dark. 

Is  to  grasp  hope.” 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


907 


Three  colours  in  heaven’s  arc 
J oin  to  make  up  the  day-beam  that  we  see ; 

Their  names  are  Beauty,  Truth,  and  Energy  — 

0 vulture,  in  the  shoreless  night  around 
Where  is  the  light  thou  speak’st  of  to  be  found  ? 

1 looked  for  a reply ; the  bird  was  flown ; 

Not  lessening  on  the  gaze,  but  seen,  and  gone; 

So  comes  a withered  leaf,  so  spins,  so  flies, 

Whirled  by  the  breeze  the  night-hour  bids  arise, 
Opening  its  gate ; when,  on  the  mountain’s  breast. 
The  wearied  shepherd  seats  himself  to  rest. 

BENEDICTUS  QUI  VENIT 

Le  Bien-aime , celui  que  vous  attendez,  femmes 

Women,  the  Beloved,  whom  ye  look  for  thus. 

He  it  is  who  passes  — whom  we  bring  with  us. 

Us  he  makes  partakers  in  his  triumph-ride; 

Us  the  Light  permits  to  follow  by  his  side; 

Lo,  we  bring  the  Master  — the  beloved  One 
On  whose  face  hath  shone  the  splendour  of  the  sun. 

Crowned  is  he  with  all  the  majesties  above. 

Though  he  wield  the  thunder,  he  would  rule  by  love. 
Kachel’s  tears  he  comforts,  Sarah’s  heart  makes  light, 
Joy  is  at  his  left  hand,  peace  upon  his  right. 

He  is  as  a bundle  of  sweet-smelling  myrrh 
Carried  by  the  bride  between  the  breasts  of  her. 

With  his  rod,  the  day-beam,  he  dispels  the  signs 
Of  that  ancient  Chaos  where  the  serpent  twines. 
Like  a precious  ointment  is  his  name  forth-shed; 


908 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Heaven  is  all  one  hymn  of  praise  above  his  head; 
Alexander’s  glory,  Solomon’s  high  state, 

Buried,  girt  with  lilies,  was  not  half  so  great. 

Earth  is  his  domain.  Man’s  spirit  owns  his  sway. 

On  the  blinded  soul  he  comes  to  pour  the  day. 

He  shall  cause  the  dragon  to  recoil  in  fear ; 

He  shall  change  the  aspect  of  this  earthly  sphere ; 
Dawn  adores  him ; night  before  his  coming  shrinks ; 
Moloch  in  his  vastness  is  dissolved  and  sinks. 

Tigers  roaring,  she-wolves  growling  over  bones, 

War  and  hate  and  civic  fury  slinging  stones, 

All  are  hushed  at  once,  if  he  his  finger  raise. 

When  he  turns  toward  heaven  his  beatific  gaze. 

Evil  he  constrains  to  vanish  out  of  sight. 

He  is  spotless,  flawless.  He  is  infinite. 

Pharaoh  and  his  chariots  are  with  him  as  grass ; 
Nimrod,  Ammon,  Cyrus  — lo,  their  glories  pass. 

He  is  holy ; He  is  king,  and  more  than  king ; 

He  goes  forth  to  conquer,  and  is  conquering. 

Day  beholds  his  greatness.  Darkness  hears  his  fame. 
Light  is  he,  and  truth,  and  power.  Praise  ye  his 
name ! 


PYRRHO 

Et  Voiseau  regarda  de  ses  deux  yeux  mon  dme 

The  two  eyes  of  the  bird 
Gazed  in  my  very  soul,  the  while  I heard ; 

And  I saw  night  beneath  them,  as  they  shone ; 
And  as  I mused  in  silence,  he  went  on: 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


909 


“ There  is  a veil  of  darkness  on  the  dead. 

Of  darkness  on  the  living.  I have  read 
What  Hermes  writ  on  his  papyrus  page : 

‘ Pyrrho  the  Eleatic  was  a mage 
‘Of  power;  at  beholding  him,  the  deep 
‘ Whinnied  for  very  fear ; he  up  the  steep 
‘Of  heaven  once  climbed,  God  deigning  to  permit; 

‘ There  he  saw  Truth ; God  let  him  compass  it ; 

‘ As  he  descended,  for  descend  he  must  — 

‘ The  realms  of  the  ideal  ever  thrust 
‘Back  on  itself  the  madness  of  the  seer  — 

‘As  he  descended,  passing  sphere  on  sphere, 

‘ Portal  on  portal  downward,  bar  on  bar, 

‘ Carrying  Truth,  bearing  in  hand  the  star, 

‘ Suddenly  with  a steadfast  look  he  turned 
‘ Toward  high  heaven  his  right  hand,  that  burned 
‘ Terrible,  dazzling,  full  of  blinding  rays ; 

‘ And  letting  from  beneath  his  fingers  blaze 
‘ Their  lustre  forth,  the  Magian  murmured  See, 

4 God , thine  own  star-beam  here  I launch  at  Thee! 

‘ The  brightness  shot  ev’n  to  the  core  of  night. 

‘ A moment,  God  was  seen ; then  all  was  hid  from 
sight/  ” 


HUGH  DUNDAS 

Devant  les  douze  Lords  de  la  Chambre  etoilee 

Earl  Hugh  Dundas  in  the  Star  Cham 
Stood  up  before  his  peers. 

The  lady  veiled  behind  the  stair. 

She  watched  him  through  her  tears. 

Scutcheons  and  lights  and  tapestried  hosts 
Shone  bravely  in  the  gloom. 


910 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


The  Twelve  Lords  sat  like  twelve  mute  ghosts 
Inside  a catacomb. 

The  axe  gleamed  bright,  the  folk  cried  Shame 
The  soldier  and  the  churl, 

They  clamoured;  nothing  could  entame 
The  soul  of  that  stout  Earl. 

“Your  eagle  haunts  drew  rebel  sword, 

And  none  of  you  were  far; 

What  did  ye  at  Cartlane,  my  lord? 

What  did  ye  at  Dunbar  ? ” 

“ I fought  for  him  my  hopes  prefer. 

For  standard  and  for  clan. 

The  eagle  is  dear  to  the  highlander. 

The  king  to  a gentleman.” 

The  judge  austere,  the  tall  Dundas, 

In  hold  they  said  their  say. 

Happy  the  knight  who  dies  on  grass. 

Afield,  in  open  day ! 

The  Court  withdrew  them  from  the  tower. 
The  people  buzzed  within; 

The  dawn  uprose,  a virgin  flower 
Mankind  would  soil  with  sin. 

The  Council-chamber’s  bolts  of  brass 
Were  all  at  once  undone; 

Like  statues  twelve  you  saw  them  pass, 

The  Twelve  Lords,  one  by  one. 

Slowly  the  white-haired  judge  began; 

“ Sudden  and  brief  our  date ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


911 


Dundas,  who  answers  not  to  man. 

To  God  shall  answer  straight. 

“ Upon  Tower  Hill  be  built  this  day 
A scaffold  black  and  high. 

What  has  your  lordship  yet  to  say  ? 
To-morrow  night  you  die.” 

Then  rose  a cry,  a cry  to  scare 
The  judges  twelve  in  place ; 

And  when  they  looked  upon  him  there, 

A smile  was  on  his  face. 

€<  So  farewell  life,”  he  said,  and  swept 
The  court  a curtesy ; 

Then  turned  him  where  his  lady  wept  — 
“ Farewell,  0 love,  to  thee ! ” 


THE  PITY  OF  THE  ANGELS 

Un  Ange  vit  un  jour 

When*  an  angel  of  kindness 
Saw,  doomed  to  the  dark, 

Men  framed  in  his  likeness, 

He  sought  for  a spark — • 

Stray  gem  of  God’s  glory 
That  shines  so  serene  — 

And,  falling  like  lark. 

To  brighten  our  story, 

Pure  Pity  was  seen. 


912 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


MENTANA 

TO  GARIBALDI 


I. 

Ces  jeunes  gens,  combien  etaient-ils? 

Young  soldiers  of  the  noble  Latin  blood, 

How  many  are  ye  — Boys  ? Four  thousand  odd. 

How  many  are  there  dead  ? Six  hundred : count ! 
Their  limbs  lie  strewn  about  the  fatal  mount, 
Blackened  and  torn,  eyes  gummed  with  blood,  hearts 
rolled 

Out  from  their  ribs,  to  give  the  wolves  of  the  wold 
A red  feast ; nothing  of  them  left  but  these 
Pierced  relics,  underneath  the  olive  trees, 

Show  where  the  gin  was  sprung  — the  scoundrel-trap 
Which  brought  those  hero-lads  their  foul  mishap. 

See  how  they  fell  in  swathes  — like  barley-ears ! 
Their  crime  ? to  claim  Borne  and  her  glories  theirs ; 
To  fight  for  Bight  and  Honor ; — foolish  names ; 
Come  — Mothers  of  the  soil ! Italian  dames ! 

Turn  the  dead  over ! — try  your  battle  luck ! 

(Bearded  or  smooth,  to  her  that  gave  him  suck 
The  man  is  always  child)  — Stay,  here’s  a brow 
Split  by  the  Zouaves’  bullets!  This  one,  now, 

With  the  bright  curly  hair  soaked  so  in  blood. 

Was  yours,  ma  donna ! — sweet  and  fair  and  good. 
The  spirit  sat  upon  his  fearless  face 
Before  they  murdered  it,  in  all  the  grace 
Of  manhood’s  dawn.  Sisters,  here’s  yours ! his  lips, 

iThe  battle  of  Mentana,  so  named  from  a village  by 
Rome,  was  fought  between  the  allied  French  and  Papal 
armies  and  the  Volunteer  Forces  of  Garibaldi,  Nov.  3rd, 
1867. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


913 


Over  whose  bloom  the  bloody  death-foam  slips, 
Lisped  house-songs  after  you,  and  said  your  name 
In  loving  prattle  once.  That  hand,  the  same 
Which  lies  so  cold  over  the  eyelids  shut. 

Was  once  a small  pink  baby-fist,  and  wet 
With  milk  beads  from  thy  yearning  breasts. 

Take  thou 

Thine  eldest, — thou,  thy  youngest  born.  Oh,  flow 
Of  tears  never  to  cease ! Oh,  Hope  quite  gone. 
Dead  like  the  dead  — Yet  could  they  live  alone  — 
Without  their  Tiber  and  their  Eome?  and  be 
Young  and  Italian  — and  not  also  free  ? 

They  longed  to  see  the  ancient  eagle  try 
His  lordly  pinions  in  a modern  sky. 

They  bore  — each  on  himself  — the  insults  laid 
On  the  dear  foster-land : of  nought  afraid, 

Save  of  not  finding  foes  enough  to  dare 
For  Italy.  Ah,  gallant,  free,  and  rare 
Young  martyrs  of  a sacred  cause, — Adieu ! 

No  more  of  life  — no  more  of  love  — for  you! 

No  sweet  long-straying  in  the  star-lit  glades 
At  Ave-Mary,  with  the  Italian  maids; 

No  welcome  home ! 

II. 

This  Garibaldi  now,  the  Italian  boys 
Go  mad  to  hear  him  — take  to  dying  — take 
To  passion  for  “ the  pure  and  high ;'' — God's  sake ! 
It's  monstrous,  horrible!  One  sees  quite  clear 
Society  — our  charge  — must  shake  with  fear 
And  shriek  for  help,  and  call  on  us  to  act 
When  there's  a hero,  taken  in  the  fact. 

If  Light  shines  in  the  dark,  there's  guilt  in  that! 
What's  viler  than  a lantern  to  a bat  ? 


914 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


HI. 

Your  Garibaldi  missed  the  mark ! You  see 
The  end  of  life’s  to  cheat,  and  not  to  be 
Cheated : The  knave  is  nobler  than  the  fool ! 

Get  all  you  can  and  keep  it ! Life’s  a pool. 

The  best  luck  wins;  if  Virtue  starves  in  rags, 

I laugh  at  Virtue ; here’s  my  money-bags ! 

Here’s  righteous  metal ! We  have  kings,  I say 
To  keep  cash  going,  and  the  game  at  play; 

There’s  why  a king  wants  money  — he’d  be  missed 
Without  a fertilizing  civil  list. 

Do  but  try 

The  question  with  a steady  moral  eye ! 

The  colonel  strives  to  be  a brigadier, 

The  marshal,  constable.  Call  the  game  fair. 

And  pay  your  winners ! Show  the  trump,  I say ! 

A renegade’s  a rascal  — till  the  day 
They  make  him  Pasha:  is  he  rascal  then? 

What  with  these  sequins  ? Bah ! you  speak  to  Men, 
And  Men  want  money  — power  — luck  — life’s 

j°y  — 

Those  take  who  can : we  could,  and  fobbed  Savoy ; 
For  those  who  live  content  with  honest  state. 
They’re  public  pests ; knock  we  ’em  on  the  pate ! 
They  set  a vile  example!  Quick  — arrest 
That  Fool,  who  ruled  and  failed  to  line  his  nest. 

J ust  hit  a bell,  you’ll  see  the  clapper  shake  — 
Meddle  with  Priests,  you’ll  find  the  barrack  wake  — 
Ah!  Princes  know  the  People’s  a tight  boot, 

March  ’em  sometimes  to  be  shot  and  to  shoot. 

Then  they’ll  wear  easier.  So  let  them  preach 

The  righteousness  of  howitzers;  and  teach 

At  the  fag  end  of  prayer : “ Now,  slit  their  throats ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


915 


My  holy  Zouaves ! my  good  yellow-coats ! " 

We  like  to  see  the  Holy  Father  send 
Powder  and  steel  and  lead  without  an  end. 

To  feed  Death  fat;  and  broken  battles  mend. 

So  they! 

IV. 

But  thou,  our  Hero,  baffled,  foiled, 

The  Glorious  Chief  who  vainly  bled  and  toiled. 

The  trust  of  all  the  Peoples  — Freedom's  Knight! 
The  Paladin  unstained  — the  Sword  of  Eight ! 

What  wilt  thou  do,  whose  land  finds  thee  but  gaols ! 
The  banished  claim  the  banished!  deign  to  cheer 
The  refuge  of  the  homeless  — enter  here, 

And  light  upon  our  households  dark  will  fall 
Even  as  thou  enterest.  Oh,  Brother,  all, 

Each  one  of  us  — hurt  with  thy  sorrows'  proof, 

Will  make  a country  for  thee  of  his  roof. 

Come,  sit  with  those  who  live  as  exiles  learn : 

Come ! Thou  whom  kings  could  conquer  but  not  yet 
turn. 

We'll  talk  of  “Palermo"1 — “the  Thousand"  true, 
Will  tell  the  tears  of  blood  of  France  to  you; 

Then  by  his  own  great  Sea  we'll  read,  together, 

Old  Homer  in  the  quiet  summer  weather, 

And  after,  thou  shalt  go  to  thy  desire 
While  that  faint  star  of  J ustice  grows  to  fire.2 

1 Palermo  was  taken  immediately  after  the  Garibaldian 
volunteers,  1,000  strong,  landed  at  Marsala  to  inaugurate 
the  rising  which  made  Italy  free. 

2 Both  poet  and  his  idol  lived  to  see  the  French  Republic 

for  the  fourth  time  proclaimed.  When  Hugo  rose  in  the 
Senate,  on  the  first  occasion  after  his  return  to  Paris  after 
the  expulsion  of  the  Napoleons,  and  his  white  head  was  seen 
above  that  of  Rouher,  ex-Prime  Minister  of  the  Empire,  all 
the  house  shuddered,  and  in  a nearly  unanimous  voice 
voice  shouted:  “The  judgment  of  God!  expiation!  99 


916 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


V. 

Oh,  Italy!  hail  your  Deliverer, 

Oh,  Nations ! almost  he  gave  Eome  to  her ! 
Strong-arm  and  prophet-heart  had  all  but  come 
To  win  the  city,  and  to  make  it  “ Rome.” 

Calm,  of  the  antique  grandeur,  ripe  to  be 
Named  with  the  noblest  of  her  history. 

He  would  have  Romanized  your  Rome  — controlled 
Her  glory,  lordships,  Gods,  in  a new  mould. 

Her  spirits*  fervour  would  have  melted  in 
The  hundred  cities  with  her;  made  a twin 
Vesuvius  and  the  Capitol;  and  blended 
Strong  JuvenaPs  with  the  soul,  tender  and  splendid, 
Of  Dante  — smelted  old  with  new  alloy  — 

Stormed  at  the  Titans*  road  full  of  bold  joy 
Whereby  men  storm  Olympus.  Italy, 

Weep ! — This  man  could  have  made  one  Rome  of 
thee! 


VI. 

But  the  crime’s  wrought!  Who  wrought  it? 

Honest  Man  — 

Priest  Pius?  No!  Each  does  but  what  he  can. 
Yonder’s  the  criminal ! The  warlike  wight 
Who  hides  behind  the  ranks  of  France  to  fight, 
Greek  Sinon’s  blood  crossed  thick  with  Judas- Jew’s, 
The  Traitor  who  with  smile  which  true  men  woos, 
Lip  mouthing  pledges  — hand  grasping  the  knife  — 
Waylaid  French  Liberty,  and  took  her  life. 

Kings,  he  is  of  you ! fit  companion ! one 
Whom  day  by  day  the  lightning  looks  upon 
Keen;  while  the  sentenced  man  triples  his  guard 
And  trembles;  for  his  hour  approaches  hard. 

Ye  ask  me  “when?”  I say  soon!  Hear  ye  not 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


917 


Yon  muttering  in  the  skies  above  the  spot? 

Mark  ye  no  coming  shadow,  Kings?  the  shroud 
Of  a great  storm  driving  the  thunder-cloud? 

Hark!  like  the  thief-catcher  who  pulls  the  pin, 
God’s  thunder  asks  to  speak  to  one  within! 

VII. 

And  meanwhile  this  death-odour  — this  corpse-scent 
Which  makes  the  priestly  incense  redolent 
Of  rotting  men,  and  the  Te  Deurns  stink  — 

Reeks  through  the  forests  — past  the  river’s  brink. 
O’er  wood  and  plain  and  mountain,  till  it  fouls 
Fair  Paris  in  her  pleasures ; then  it  prowls, 

A deadly  stench,  to  Crete,  to  Mexico, 

To  Poland  — wheresoe’er  kings’  armies  go : 

And  Earth  one  Upas-tree  of  bitter  sadness. 

Opening  vast  blossoms  of  a bloody  madness. 

Throats  cut  by  thousands  — slain  men  by  the  ton ! 
Earth  quite  corpse-cumbered,  though  the  half  not 
done ! 

They  lie,  stretched  out,  where  the  blood-puddles 
soak, 

Their  black  lips  gaping  with  the  last  cry  spoke. 

“ Stretched nay  sown  broadcast;  yes,  the  word  is 
“ sown.” 

The  fallows  Liberty  — the  harsh  wind  blown 
Over  the  furrows,  Fate : and  these  stark  dead 
Are  grain  sublime,  from  Death’s  cold  fingers  shed 
To  make  the  Abyss  conceive:  the  Future  bear 
More  noble  Heroes ! Swell,  oh,  Corpses  dear ! 

Rot  quick  to  the  green  blade  of  Freedom!  Death! 
Do  thy  kind  will  with  them ! They  without  breath. 
Stripped,  scattered,  ragged,  festering,  slashed  and 
blue. 


918 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Dangle  towards  God  the  arms  French  shot  tore 
through 

And  wait  in  meekness,  Death ! for  Him  and  You ! 


VIII. 

Oh,  France!  oh,  People!  sleeping  unabashed! 

Liest  thou  like  a hound  when  it  was  lashed? 

Thou  liest ! thine  own  blood  fouling  both  thy  hands. 
And  on  thy  limbs  the  rust  of  iron  bands. 

And  round  thy  wrists  the  cut  where  cords  went 
deep. 

Say  did  they  numb  thy  soul,  that  thou  didst  sleep? 
Alas!  sad  France  is  grown  a cave  for  sleeping, 
Which  a worse  night  than  Midnight  holds  in  keeping. 
Thou  sleepest  sottish  — lost  to  life  and  fame  — 
While  the  stars  stare  on  thee,  and  pale  for  shame. 
Stir ! rouse  thee ! Sit ! if  thou  know’st  not  to  rise ; 
Sit  up,  thou  tortured  sluggard!  ope  thine  eyes! 
Stretch  thy  brawn,  Giant ! Sleep  is  foul  and  vile ! 
Art  fagged,  art  deaf,  art  dumb  ? art  blind  this  while  ? 
They  lie  who  say  so ! Thou  dost  know  and  feel 
The  things  they  do  to  thee  and  thine.  The  heel 
That  scratched  thy  neck  in  passing  — whose  ? Canst 
say? 

Yes,  yes,  Twas  his , and  this  is  his  fete-day. 

Oh,  thou  that  wert  of  humankind  — couched  so  — 

A beast  of  burden  on  this  dunghill ! oh ! 

Bray  to  them,  Mule ! Oh,  Bullock ! bellow  then ! 
Since  they  have  made  thee  blind,  grope  in  thy  den ! 
Do  something,  Outcast  One,  that  wast  so  grand ! 

Who  knows  if  thou  putFst  forth  thy  poor  maimed 
hand, 

There  may  be  venging  weapon  within  reach ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


919 


Feel  with  both  hands  — with  both  huge  arms  go 
stretch 

Along  the  black  wall  of  thy  cellar.  Nay, 

There  may  be  some  odd  thing  hidden  away? 

Who  knows  — there  may!  Those  great  hands  might 
so  come 

In  course  of  ghastly  fumble  through  the  gloom, 
Upon  a sword  — a sword!  The  hands  once  clasp 
Its  hilt,  must  wield  it  with  a Victor’s  grasp. 

SONG  OF  BIRDS 

Vie!  0 bonheur!  Bois  profonds 

Life  — what  rapture!  Life  at  ease 
Among  tall  trees, 

By  unwearying  impulse  stirred ! 

Soar  we  high  o’er  earth  and  water ! 

From  the  matter 
Of  men’s  souls  is  made  the  bird. 

Live  we  — sing  we ! All  is  bright 
In  heaven’s  light; 

All  is  radiant  in  the  day; 

Night  and  morn,  all  creatures  tend 
Toward  their  end; 

Streamlets  wind,  but  do  not  stray. 

Joyful  smiles  the  country-side 
Far  and  wide ; 

Spirits  dance  on  every  bough; 

Voices  murmur  on,  above, 

“ Live  and  love  ” ; 

Blossoms  whisper  “ Pluck  us  now.” 


920 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Kose  of  dawn  and  gold  of  day 
Sow  alway 

Everywhere  their  opal  fires. 

Birds  are  not  an  orphaned  race; 

Every  place 

One  mysterious  mind  inspires. 

One  unseen  by  mortal  eye 
Sojourns  nigh 

In  his  dwelling  known  of  none; 

And  his  influence  hath  blest 
Our  warm  nest, 

And  his  window  is  the  sun. 

It  is  of  his  ordering 
That  our  wing 

Never  fails  us,  best  or  worst; 

That  the  doves  upon  the  hills 
Drink  at  rills 

Where  the  wild  goats  quench  their  thirst. 

Thanks  to  him,  the  wood-peckers. 

Whom  grey  firs 

Hail  as  guardians,  wander  free; 

And  deliver  from  the  ants 
Their  loved  haunts. 

Cedar-tree  and  maple-tree. 

Thanks  to  him,  to  poplars  tall 
Sparrows  all 

From  low  elder-scrub  take  wing; 

*Tis  his  providence  that  makes 
Thick  the  brakes. 

There  to  sleep  and  there  to  sing. 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


921 


He  it  is  who  in  green  boughs 
Bids  us  house. 

Goldfinch,  wagtail,  humming-bird; 

All  the  tribes  whom  air  delights ; 

Who  on  heights 
Of  blue  ether  sing  unheard. 

He  to  whom  our  names  are  known 
Guides  his  own. 

What  care  we  what  means  our  song? 
In  our  untaught  low  estate 
We  are  great; 

In  our  weakness  we  are  strong. 

Tempests,  driving  all  to  flee, 

Setting  free 

Thunder,  water-spout  and  hail. 
Lashing,  howsoever  it  rave, 

Ocean’s  wave. 

Break  against  our  feathers  frail. 

He  is  good.  The  summer  heat 
Makes  he  sweet ; 

Sweet  the  rowan-berries  red ; 

By  his  goodness  no  one  comes 
Near  our  homes. 

But  dry  leaves  bewray  his  tread. 

Love,  that  waited  for  his  word. 

Spake,  and  stirred 
Into  harmonies  divine 
All  the  creatures  of  the  field; 

He  revealed 

In  their  instincts  his  design. 


922 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


Life!  It  is  the  master-spell 
None  can  quell, 

Boundless,  endless,  numberless; 
Gentle,  inexhaustible; 

Filling  full 

Earth  in  all  her  dreariness. 

Let  us  fly  and  fly  and  fly! 

Furrows  lie 

Side  by  side;  the  hills  are  green; 
Life  is  there,  before  our  eyes 
In  blue  skies 

Clear  and  open  to  be  seen. 

Swallow,  come  and  build  thy  nest; 
Granite  crest 

Lends  thee  shade  and  ivy  leaves ; 
Take  the  roof  of  palace-tower 
For  thy  bower, 

Take  thy  straw  from  cottage-eaves. 

Tiny  nest,  by  swallows  all 
Built  so  small. 

Thou  art  full  of  mystery; 

Tiny  egg,  from  its  due  curve 
The  world  would  swerve, 
Were  the  woods  despoiled  of  thee. 


LIFE 

Let  us  be  like  a bird,  one  instant  lighted 
Upon  a twig  that  swings ; 

He  feels  it  yield  — but  sings  on,  unaffrighted, 
Knowing  he  hath  his  wings ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 


923 


FREEDOM  AND  THE  WORLD 
Le  peuple  est  petit 

(Inscription  under  a Statue  of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  at 
Guernsey. — The  poet  sees  in  the  emblem  a modern  Atlas, 
I.  e.  Freedom  supporting  the  World.) 

Weak  is  the  People  — but  will  grow  beyond  all  other 
Within  thy  holy  arms,  thou  fruitful  victor-mother ! 
O Liberty,  whose  conquering  flag  is  never  furled  — 
Thou  bearest  Him  in  whom  is  centred  all  the  World. 


THE  BLIND  BEGGAR  AND  THE  POET 

[Victor  Hugo,  meeting  a blind  beggar  led  by  a little 
girl,  wrote  on  a board  which  the  old  man  had  hung  round 
his  neck,  four  lines,  of  which  the  following  is  a trans- 
lation.] 

Like  Belisarius,  and  like  Homer,  blind, 

By  one  weak  child,  sole  guide  and  guardian  led, 
Alms  by  your  hands  to  suffering  age  consigned 
He  cannot  see  — God  sees  them  in  his  stead. 


t 


n 


